The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Mycroft gives Sherlock Holmes another of his early cases, investigating a fraudulent palmist called Ricoletti. But with stolen jewels and mysterious deaths, what should be a simple case becomes very deadly indeed! Sequel to Tankerville Leopard. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Sherlock Holmes is the singular and exceptional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

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_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Prologue**

It is the shock of the cold that wakes me. The water opens its arms and hauls me into its inky heart. I was not aware that I had been moved, nor that my hands had been tied, my feet also, manacled to some great weight that pulls me down, ever further from the watery yellow halo at the well head. Water fills my nostrils and I fight the need to breathe. I am dragged down, what little air I have escaping either side of the gag that has been forced into my mouth in drifting collections of bubbles that flee to the surface and pock the writhing waters with ever-radiating circles.

A dull thud reverberates through my legs and the downward impulsion ends. The bottom has been reached and the chain about my feet slackens. My ankle bones, no longer rubbing painfully together, part by an inch. The chain loosens as I struggle and kick. One shoe comes free, then the other. Above, the circle of light is being eclipsed into a thinning crescent. My chest burns, my lungs cry out for air. Never has the need to breathe been this urgent. But with escape close, I dare not contemplate the failure of my resolve.

The chain reluctantly yields another half inch. My foot slides through, followed quickly by the other. My bound hands do not make for the easiest ascent. My race is against the all-consuming need for air and the diminishing sliver of lamplight high above. I break the surface just as the light fails – and I am cast into eternal darkness.

I bob on the still waters, and casting the gag from between my teeth, I drink in the stale, blessed air in great gulps, easing the fire in my chest with the green water that slops into my mouth. In the dark, the lap and gurgle of the water as it teases the circular walls of my prison is oppressive; save for my own laboured breathing, there is nothing else to contest this battle of sound. We cannot play this game forever, the water and I. Unless rescue comes, my strength will surely fail. Already the chill is biting into my bones, already my hands are numb and too many times has my head slid under the surface.

The problem, of course, is that no one knows I am here.

It is night and the sleepers will not wake until long after I am drowned. If they do wonder about my failure to appear at breakfast, it will be some time before anyone thinks to investigate. When they find the room is empty, my bed unslept in, they will come to the inevitable conclusion, that I have slunk away, an admitted murderer of elderly widows who knows the hand of the law is about to fall on his shoulder. They will say that their suspicions were right all along, and the police will concur. They will not think to search the gardens, nor find this old disused well. In time, someone, many years from now, will stumble across my water-logged bones and exonerate my memory. Much good will it do me, when I shall be too long dead to care.

If I cannot rely upon others, then I see that I must look to own resources. The rope around my hands is tight and the water has made it intractable. I cannot free myself, either with teeth nor any sharp projection that I had hoped to find on these slime-encrusted walls. Round and round I travel, feeling my way in the darkness for some hand-hold to which I might cling and give my aching legs a rest. I grope through the slippery vegetation and find a brick standing slightly proud of the others. With my nails, I grasp at it, taking a firmer hold and pulling my upper body free of the water. I shiver from cold and the sheer effort of what I have done, until suddenly my fingers are slithering across the coarse surface, shredding my nails down to the quick. I fall and once more the waters close above my head.

In that moment of suspension, when one is neither falling nor rising, I hear the voice of reason telling me that I cannot win. How much easier it would be to submit now, to forsake air and let the water claim its victory. No more struggle, it tells me, surrender, _surrender __now_.

I do not listen. If I had not the stomach for a fight, I would not have come this far. I push for the surface and break through, from dark water to dark air. What to do? With my hands free, I might have been able to work my way to the top of the well, push the lid aside and return to the world. As it is, the walls are set just far enough apart, so that I am not able to brace my legs against them. Even my protruding brick seems to be eluding me, except when I find a vaguely rectangular-shaped gap where once it had been and realise I had pulled it free.

It seems to take forever for my cold fingers to obey my will and hook themselves into the hole. When I am secure, I hang there, my chin grazing against the exposed brickwork as my teeth keep up a constant rattle. My sodden clothes are like lead, sapping what little energy I have. Worse of all, I cannot concentrate. My mind wanders, away from the problem how I am to avoid drowning to a questioning of what foolishness it was that brought me here in the first place.

A man looms large in my mind, not that in person he was of that stature. Rather smaller, squat, barrel-like almost, with a shambolic gait, neat black hair that gleams from the overgenerous application of lime cream and a foppish moustache, twirled into pin-prick points at the ends. We sit, amidst a crowd, face to face, my hand uppermost, held in his, while the fingers of his other hand trace the lines of my palm.

"Why, Mr Holmes," I hear him say again, "it almost seems that you will die by water."

By water! The irony does not escape me as I struggle to keep my head above the surface of this foetid pool. He could not have known, I tell myself, he could _not_ have foreseen this! One's destiny is not to be found etched into the skin of one's palm or in tea-leaves or to be glimpsed in dew-smeared mirrors at the break of day. To believe that is to yield to that voice whose urgings grow ever more strident until I am speaking my defiance out loud to smother that impulsion to surrender to my fate.

I will not go quietly, I tell the darkness. I will not be silenced while such men live to prey upon the innocent and unsuspecting.

"Curse you, Ricoletti," I yell in defiance. "Curse you and your abominable wife!"

My words echo and fall back to me, robbed of their strength, as am I. I have gone past coldness into a state where I feel nothing of physical pain or emotional turmoil. I have no fear of death and few regrets, except that my brother must hear things said of me which he alone will know are not true. He will suspect my fate, but will not be able to prove otherwise. In my mind's eye, I see him shake his head and say that he told me so.

Perhaps, brother, you were right, or perhaps you have been my undoing. You sent me here, after all.

My fingers slip and inch towards the edge. I try to dig in, but I have lost whatever command I had over them ages ago. How long has it been? Twenty minutes, thirty? My futile efforts have claimed a few minutes more of life, nothing more. _Do not struggle_, he had said. _It is easier if you do not fight_. I teeter on the edge of extinction, held by the jagged, bleeding remnants of my nails. I am too tired and too cold to care. I shall die quietly in the darkness on a date that my brain is too addled to remember, my life counted in years that seem irrelevant now.

_That you will die by water. _Could it be that the chiromancer had spoken the truth? If so, another of his predictions is about to come true.

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_**To find out how this alarming situation came about, onwards to Chapter One!**_


	2. Chapter One

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter One: The Incorrigible Mr Miles Holmes**

Our lives are beset by choices. What to wear, what to eat, where to live, how to behave.

For myself, I harbour an envy of the man who has stripped his life of extraneous considerations and is able to chart his own course through an imperturbable sea governed by routine and familiarity.

It may well be deemed unadventurous to aspire to such considerations, for such a life may only be claimed by the older gentlemen, set in his ways and comfortable with his lot; yet for the man buffeted by the whims of others, there is something to be said for stability.

I mention it, because on that Friday morning in February of 1878, I, Sherlock Holmes, would-be master of my own destiny, found myself subject to the command of my elder sibling. If I had any choice in the matter, I would have been anywhere but in Mayfair, outside the residence of my cousin, Miles, the oldest son of my father's second eldest brother.

Personally, I would have rather been boiled in oil than have had to set foot across his threshold; when Mycroft had said that he thought that could be arranged, I saw that in reality I had no choice but to comply. Happy the man, indeed, who can call his life his own. Unhappily, that day, that lot was not mine.

If I have described my reasons for being in this situation as a whim, then I exaggerate. What seemed a trifle to me was of great import to the people concerned. However, when I set my course to becoming a consulting detective, I fancied I would be setting my sights rather higher than the exposure of fakes and charlatans. In this case, concern centred around a chiromancer – a reader of palms to predict the future – by the name of Ricoletti who was causing ripples in fashionable circles.

Whether by luck or judgement, he had made himself indispensible, so that no marriage that carried any weight was entered upon without his prior blessing. Palms were read, fates were revealed, and the bride and bridegroom could rest assured that the path of their nuptial life was to be one of joy and delight.

From what I have read and observed, that assurance alone would have put me on my guard immediately as to the fellow's veracity. It is a rare thing to find any couple who have never had a cross word, although in a quaint town in Essex, I understand that they have been doing their utmost to extol such a virtue since the days of King Henry III. Yearly, the town of Dunmow has been in the habit of awarding a flitch – a side of bacon – to the couple who can prove to a mock court that 'they have not repented of their marriage for a year and a day'.

One suspects either that the good people of Dunmow are being deceived or that the rising price of pork is doing more for marital harmony than all the pamphlets and words of wisdom to young lovers put together.

Whether one trusts to bacon or chiromancers, however, it does not seem the spirit in which to enter into the thing. If marriage has many pains and celibacy no pleasures, as Dr Johnson noted, then the man who would a-wooing go clearly has his choices already laid out for him. To attempt to overcome the odds by the divination of the future seems either to ring of desperation or to be woefully optimistic.

But I digress. My point was that it was obvious to me from the outset that Ricoletti was a fraud, and like all frauds he had found a gullible audience, ready to believe and slow to question. Normally, as is the way of such things, in the fullness of time he would have been exposed as the blackguard he undoubtedly was or fashions would have changed and his brand of trickery would be exchanged for some other such fanciful diversion.

What raised this particular specimen above the ordinary was that tragedy had attached itself to his circle and had cost a young man his life. On the basis of Ricoletti's prediction, the Honourable Arthur Bassett had taken his fate as a future traitor to his country to heart and had chosen not to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but rather to end his troubles with a bullet through his brain.

None who knew him could believe that he would come to such a future pass or that he would have been so affected. For his grieving family, especially his kin by marriage, the Prime Minister, there could be no recompense for his loss. That extorted personage hoped, however, that some way might be found of discrediting Ricoletti before another young life was lost.

Legal avenues, especially the notoriety that a _cause célèbre_ would bring, were to be avoided at all costs. Thus, the Prime Minster had turned to my brother and he in turn had retorted on me. What was needed in this case, so I had been told, was "a subtler touch, at which your brother assures me you excel".

Whilst I appreciated the confidence, subtlety was not proving to be my strongest suit of late. I had blundered in my last case, ruining many months of secret investigation by certain departments of the government into underhand dealings and murder at the Tankerville Club and had suffered a near fatal injury in the process. My one consolation was that a nest of diamond thieves had been brought to justice and several murderers made to pay for their crimes. All this, apparently, had conspired to make me ideal for the task of exposing Ricoletti. I was in no position to refuse.

That only left the practicalities. I had been deceiving myself if I thought that my not having an entrée into the type of circles that Ricoletti frequented would be a stumbling block. Mycroft, the annoyingly thoughtful fellow that he is, had arranged everything and had enlisted the help of cousin Miles to be my guide through the rough and uncharted waters of fashionable society. That was where an otherwise excellent plan started to crumble.

Cousin Miles, or to give him his full appellation, Jocelyn Miles Seymour Holmes, was someone I had never met but heard much about – and little of it was flattering. If one believed all one read in the society columns, then Miles had taken the vice of indolence and turned it into an art form.

He appeared to do little else than wander from one party to another, scandalising society with his outspoken opinions about everything and everyone, and indulging in as much outrageous behaviour as possible. He had frittered away several fortunes, no mean feat for someone still only thirty-one, yet still seemed capable of keeping himself from the brink of ruin. He was vacuous, conceited, vainglorious, idle, pompous and every other word that the thesaurus is able to furnish to describe such an objectionable individual.

Worse of all, we were first cousins. I shuddered to think that this fawning parasite could bear any kinship with either Mycroft or myself.

As I say, I would have rather have been boiled in oil. Failing that, I had no other option but to knock on his door.

A dour, middle-aged sad-eyed man with the demeanour of an eternal pessimist who I took to be the butler admitted me and I was shown into an opulent sitting room. Mycroft had assured me that I was expected, a fact which the butler confirmed by not bothering to look at my card and ushering me into the presence of his master with the minimum of fuss.

My first sight of Miles did not disappoint. Despite the lateness of the hour, he was still at breakfast and dealing with his correspondence whilst he sipped from an exquisite Sèvres green and gold teacup, chosen, so it appeared to match the heavy wallpaper and curtains, which were swathed in as many gold tassels as was possible to crowd onto the pelmet.

Miles himself had affected what was then called aesthetic dress: light-coloured trousers, burgundy velvet lounge jacket with padded lapels and a carnation, purple silk patterned waistcoat, turned-down shirt collar and soft tie, all worn with a careless elegance that I fancied took more time to perfect than at first appeared. More daringly, he had elected to wear his hair long and gently curling, so that it brushed the shoulders of his jacket and created a dark frame about his face that rendered his skin as pale as the marble statue of a young lady in a state of undress that perched on the wooden pedestal behind him. [1]

In my respectable black, I felt as some dull jackdaw in the company of an exotic bird of paradise and strangely at a disadvantage because of it. I was aware I was being inspected and no doubt assessed, and some few minutes passed before Miles favoured me with a greeting.

"So," said he, setting his cup aside, "you are my little cousin, Sherlock."

Normally, I would have disputed so erroneous a statement. Now he was on his feet, I saw that I was quite his equal in height and as far from being 'little' as it was possible to be. But then, it was patently obvious what he meant – the elder man, stamping his authority, and reminding me in no uncertain terms who was master of this domain. I chose not to quibble.

"So it would appear," I replied, mirroring his smile in the same disingenuous manner.

"Well, now, I haven't seen you since…" He considered. "In fact, I've never seen you, so I must take your word for it that we are related." His eyes narrowed a fraction as he conducted a fleeting inspection of my features and profile. "You have the Holmes nose, that much is clear. One could wish for a less prominent family trait, but one must work with what Nature sees fit to bestow. Won't you sit? At this hour of the day, I can tolerate very little formality."

He gestured to the chair opposite his at the table and as I sat so the butler appeared with a cup and saucer and a fresh pot of coffee.

"Thank you, Algernon," said Miles. "Have you eaten, Sherlock? No? Very well. That will be all."

"Your butler is most attentive," I commented when we were alone.

"Valet," Miles corrected me. "I have little use for a butler in my present circumstances."

"Which are?"

"Comfortable enough, cousin. In such a situation, Algernon is quite indispensible and the soul of discretion, a quality which in a servant is worth its weight in gold, if such a thing could be measured. I dare say if it could, the world would be turned upside down, for I am the most indiscreet fellow that ever stood in shoe leather." He selected a letter from the rack and perused it. "Now, if I read this correctly, Mimi says you wish an introduction into more elevated circles than those you currently frequent."

"Mimi?" I queried.

He gazed across at me. "Your brother, Mycroft. Oh, do forgive my sobriquet for him, but what the devil is one to call a fellow whose favourite phrase at school was 'my my'? Well, it was either that or 'Bloaters'. How is he, by the way? Still plump? As I recall, he had a weakness for _bon-bons_ and cheese that was the ruin of his figure."

Prior to this meeting, I knew very little of my brother's history with our cousin, save that, being separated in age by only a few months, they had attended the same school and later the same college. I gathered the relationship was not always amicable, for Mycroft had spoken in vague terms of Miles as being 'difficult to get along with'. I began to see why.

Miles, whether by accident of birth or design, was given to levity and good-humour, which made him an altogether more agreeable prospect in some circles than my brother with his plan to establish a club for the unsociable and unclubbable gentlemen of London.

I imagined that they had not rubbed along easily, an irritation which had eased for both of them when Miles chose to abandon his studies at Oxford and seek out a life less intellectually stimulating and more frivolous. The death of his father some months later and the inheritance of a not inconsiderable fortune had completed his transformation from insignificant country squire into society gentleman. He was charming, handsome and urbane – if ever a man was born for such a role, it was Miles.

And annoyingly, I found myself starting to warm to the incorrigible rogue.

"As I say," he went on, "Mimi was less than candid. Therefore, I must ask you: why?"

"Why?" I echoed.

He regarded me reprovingly. "Come now, cousin. There are only two reasons why a man should wish to expose himself to the public gaze in such a manner – the need for money or the need for a wife, neither of which considerations are mutually exclusive. One may be obtained by the acquisition of the other, whether such is the design or not. Looking at you," he said, rather critically, "I would say the former, in which case, if you continue in your present state, you shall attract only moths."

I glanced down at myself. "Why?"

Miles sighed theatrically. "My dear boy, you look like a living skeleton. Never have I seen body and soul held so loosely together. I understand that you've been ill, but that is no reason to let one's standards slide. I count several malingerers among the best-dressed men I know. Believe me when I say that they would not be seen dead in that creation you are 'wearing' – for so ill a fit it has yet to be my misfortune to encounter – nor do they intend to do so. You are, Sherlock, to be blunt, a disgrace to the name that gave you birth. Grandfather Ranulf's horse was better turned out than you are – and didn't slurp half as loudly."

I put my cup down with a feeling of mortification as hot blood rushed to my cheeks.

"Didn't they feed you at the asylum?" Miles asked.

"I haven't been in an asylum," I countered. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"Your brother says you have been 'delicate' of late, which to me implied an imbalance in your mental faculties. Heaven knows you would not be the first in our family. Take great uncle Rupert – barking mad he was, so they say, literally. Took to living in the kennels with the foxhounds. But then, given the choice of sleeping with the dogs or great aunt Esmeralda, I know which I should have preferred. Well, if I have erred, Sherlock, I do apologise, but what was I to think?"

"If you must know," I said, "I was in hospital for a short period."

Miles started with alarm. "Oh, my dear boy, did no one ever tell you that hospital is the last place to go if one is ill? It wasn't something infectious, I trust?"

"No, I was stabbed."

"Unfortunate."

"Following a duel."

"Interesting."

"By a villain whom I helped to bring to justice."

Miles yawned. "Oh, do forgive me. You were starting to sound like your brother. He was always greatly taken with the notion of justice." He favoured me with a benign smile and I noted a mischievous twinkle in his grey eyes. "So, as a result of this experience, you have come to realise that life is too short a thing to waste grubbing around with books and languishing in dingy offices, and therefore have come to your worldly cousin in the hope that he might teach you how to extract a little enjoyment from this tired old realm. Am I correct?"

"Something like that."

"As I thought," said he. "Well, as an explanation it will do for now. An event of great magnitude must have occurred for Mycroft to swallow his pride and come grovelling to me. Still, I will admit I was intrigued, and it is always a pleasure to see how the other members of the family are faring."

"Are your siblings well?" I asked, more out of courtesy than any great interest.

Miles gazed at the ceiling while he considered his answer. "No, but then I would never describe any of them as being 'well' at the best of times. Odd, yes, baffling perhaps, but never well. Endymion has taken it into his head that we would all be better people if only we embraced celibacy, Peregrine worries a great deal about civilisations too long dead to care what we think of them, and my sister pines for the local ne'er-do-well and tells me her heart shall surely break for unrequited love of the fellow. To tell the truth, where possible I let it be known that I am an orphan for I gave up on them a long time ago. But you…"

He rose to his feet and indicated that I should do the same. He circled me like a lion with its prey, making critical noises and occasionally pinching and pulling at my clothing.

"Yes," said he thoughtfully, "I see that I am to have my work cut out for me here. Still, I'm always open to a challenge, and you, my dear boy, well, where do I begin?"

"I believe I am presentable enough," I said, somewhat offended at so critical an appraisal.

"Presentable enough for a third class carriage, but for society, no, you will not do at all. Take that unruly mop upon your head. Whoever cut your hair did so with a knife and fork. May I ask whether you shaved this morning?"

"Of course."

"Then next time stand closer to the razor. Now, your clothes. This collar, these cuffs – have you never heard of starch? One should never appear in public with anything but the crispest and finest white linen that money can buy. You should change your shirt every day without fail, for dirty linen is indicative of vulgarity of mind. Even the working man can manage a clean shirt every day. Not only that…"

He leaned closer to me and sniffed delicately.

"Oh, my dear cousin, this will never do. You smell like a man."

"I would be concerned if it was anything other."

Miles tutted. "How little you know, Sherlock." He sang out for his valet. "Algernon has the most sensitive olfactory membranes of any fellow I know," he explained. "Now, Algernon, would you be kind enough to give your opinion of my cousin?"

Until that moment, I had never had been exposed to the withering judgement of any servant, so that the experience was new and rather unsettling. I should have protested, but I was entirely at a disadvantage.

"Musty books," said Algernon, sniffing long and thoughtfully. "Carbolic soap, perspiration, stale smoke and fried onions, sir."

"I detest onions, fried or otherwise," I said indignantly. "I never eat them."

"Then your tailor does," said Miles. "I too can detect that objectionable stench on your clothes. What else? The mustiness suggests that you spend a good deal of time in a library or archive, the soap is a lingering after-effect of your time in hospital, the perspiration suggests that you walked here and misjudged your time so that you were forced to hurry, and the stale smoke speaks for itself. A little old to be a student, aren't you, cousin?"

"A student of criminology, in matter of fact."

Miles's eyebrows rose. "Is that what they teach at our ancient universities these days? All they offered me were English or the classics."

"My own study, Miles," I enlightened him. "As to my degree, I never completed my studies. I came down a year early."

"Did you now? I'll wager that pleased your brother." He gave a mirthless laugh. "May I ask why?"

"I had my reasons."

He nodded approvingly and I thought I perceived a slight change in his manner, as though this admission had caused him to reassess his view of me.

"Yes, quite right, none of my business really," said he. "After all, we all have our reasons. I know I did. Well, thank you, Algernon. Will you bring me the 'Vetiver'? Now, Sherlock, you must understand that this 'miasma' with which you have surrounded yourself will never do. One should never smell like the watchman's dog. It offends the ladies and frightens the horses. The gentleman should aspire to a carefully cultivated and acceptable aroma of masculinity."

The valet had returned with a small bottle. Miles uncorked it and offered it under my nose. A rather dry, woody aroma caught in the back of my throat and made me cough.

"Breathe deeply, cousin," said he. "This very expensive perfume at which you turn up that elegant aquiline nose of yours is specially blended for men by Floris. The top notes are vetiver, hence the name, it being derived from a grass peculiar to India. Those base notes from which you recoil so violently are cedar, sandalwood and amber. Very masculine and very gentlemanly." [2]

I gave him a dubious look.

"You shall have to get used to it, Sherlock. If you wish to effect the demeanour of a gentleman, then you will have to smell like one, otherwise you will be exposed for a bounder." His attention turned to my clothes. "You shall have to dress like one too. This collection of garments you've draped about yourself will never do."

"This is new suit," I protested, "made-to-measure not a week ago."

"I dare say, but not for you." He pulled at the shoulders and tugged the sleeves. "You wear it like a sack of potatoes; in fact, it may well be made from sacking. The quality of the material is poor – factory-made from the texture of it – and the cut is quite appalling. The seams in particular, and the edging! Where is the braid? Good heavens, who has been dressing you?"

"Well, he is my brother's tailor—"

"Ah, that explains it. Mimi has the sartorial taste of a monkey and the refinement of a hippopotamus. But you are an obedient little brother, taught to submit without question. You do as he says, you go where he says."

"That is not true."

"You admit you follow his lead in matters of tailoring. Are you not here because he willed it? You may not realise it, Sherlock, but your brother is an arch-manipulator of the first water. He delights in controlling people and situations. It does not surprise me that he found for himself a niche in some government department from where he can rule the lives of countless thousands. That must appeal to him greatly. In fact, I would never be at all surprised if he turned out to be the _éminence grise_ behind the Cabinet itself."

I said nothing to either confirm or deny this. Miles would never know how close he had come to the truth about my brother, having guessed at something that I had only recently learned for myself. Family we might have been, but I did not know him well enough to trust him with the nature of Mycroft's position.

"Then we have you, the saddest case of all," Miles went on. "If only you had eyes to see, you would acknowledge that he has ruled your life since you were an infant and continues to do so. That he does it with a smile and tells you it is for your own good deceives you into thinking this is not so. Deny it, if you are able."

I would never have called Mycroft faultless, but to hear him openly criticised, especially by Miles, roused my ire. Loyalty to one's immediate family is paramount and I thought to defend him from these charges.

But then other thoughts came to me, of the truth of my father's diminished circumstances that he had kept from me, of his threat of disownment to steer me from pursuing my last case, the disapproval of my chosen profession and the lies he told his peers that his younger brother was ill rather than admit he was a consulting detective, and finally of the artful way I had been manoeuvred into taking this case.

"I see," Miles observed, watching my expression closely when I failed to reply, "that my arrow has not strayed far from its mark. However, let us not dwell upon it, for now is the time to act. The remedy oft lies within ourselves, Sherlock, remember that. Now come, we have much to do before tonight, and it is high time you commenced your education at the university of life!"

* * *

_**Poor Mimi - I mean, Mycroft. Would that nickname annoy him, d'you think? If nothing else, having Jocelyn Miles Seymour Holmes involved in the case should prove interesting...**_

_**Continued in Chapter Two!**_

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[1] Aesthetic dress was favoured over high fashion in the late 1870s by those in artistic circles and at the very top of society, who could break the rules and dress how they pleased.

[2] A real scent for men created by Floris in 1873, at time when personal hygiene was of paramount importance and perfumery for both sexes was highly fashionable. In later years and HOUN in particular, Holmes will tell Watson that "there are 75 perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other" and how his prompt recognition of these based on his own experience had been the deciding factor in many cases. Was 'Vetiver' one of these fragrances?


	3. Chapter Two

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Two: An afternoon at the Turkish baths**

It has been said that a gentleman never fails to cherish the memory of his first visit to the baths, as does a lady that of her first ball.

Certainly I would have the bruises for some time to remind me of mine, the result of a quite intensive manipulation by a large unsmiling shampooer who had set to work on my back with the ferocity of a baker kneading dough. I had been told the experience was an enjoyable one; there had been moments, however, in the relentless progression from one progressively hotter room to the next when I had begun to sympathise with the fate of the game fowl cooked for the table. I felt roasted, and now I was being scrubbed and massaged to within an inch of my life by a man whose former occupation was as groom to a Newmarket racing stable.

I had my cousin to thank for this unhappy situation and no one but myself to blame for agreeing to what seemed to me an absurd waste of time. My weakness I can only attribute to having had my will broken down by a procession of activities designed to transform me into a society butterfly. My hair had been trimmed and I had endured a shave so close that I had had to check that the skin of my throat was still intact. Miles had then taken me to his tailor, who, after a good deal of deliberation, had promised that he would do what he could, but that it would be 'a rare challenge'.

After such a demoralising experience, I was no in fit state to oppose Miles's next suggestion of a visit to the Argyll Place Turkish baths, just off Regent Street [1]. Normally, I would not have countenanced such an idea, not being one of the practice's most enthusiastic supporters. Others thought differently. The notion of basking in varying degrees of dry heat, followed by scrubbing and massage – shampooing – and with a final period of relaxation, had so seized the public imagination since its introduction to these isles some twenty years before that the ubiquitous Turkish bath house was now to found in every large town across the country. The medical profession had been won over, and had duly recommended the procedure for hospital and asylum patients alike.

If one could believe the popular press, everyone, men and women alike (although not at the same time), were enjoying the Turkish bath ritual – except it seemed me.

Whilst I am not adverse to new experiences, I had yet to dip my toe into the proverbial plunge bath. From what I had heard, it was a pleasant way to spend a few hours doing very little at all. To my mind, such a prospect was neither pleasing nor fulfilling. Talk about 'atmospheres of repose' did not help matters, seeming as it did to me that these were nothing more than warm places to sleep. It was work and stimulation I needed, not 'repose', however glorified the surroundings.

A more practical truth was that in the not too distant past, having four shillings to fritter away in such a profitless activity was unheard of where my finances were concerned. Today, however, Miles was paying, and his advice was never to disdain anything freely offered. I countered by saying that such things usually came at a price, not necessarily pecuniary in nature.

To this, he had smiled and asked whether my brother would approve of my being at such an establishment. He would not, having adopted his usual imperious manner of cautioning me long and earnestly in the past that I should avoid doing anything that might tend to make me any thinner than I already was. Defying Mycroft, after Miles's earlier observations about his domineering behaviour, had a certain appeal that afternoon and it was that consideration, perhaps more than any other, that had finally swayed me in the matter. Thus, under the guidance of cousin Miles, I had my induction to the baths.

It is, for those unacquainted with the practice, a most mysterious and exotic world, governed by strange rituals and conducted in scented surroundings that seem to leap from the pages of the _Arabian Nights_. Firstly, one exchanges London stock and brick for an edifice whose roof is topped with a dome and peppered with minarets. Then into the interior, itself a riot of riot of green, gold and cream ceramic tiles and faux marble of every colour and variety, while the floor is a canvas for the multi-coloured lights thrown down from the stained-glass.

Despite such opulence, the nervous novice is gently welcomed into a world of peace and tranquillity, the hush broken only by the soothing sound of splashing water in the fountains. Clothes are abandoned in preference for a loin-towel, a blue and red affair some two yards wide, and there is a strange sense of exhilaration in exposing one's naked torso to the ever-increasing temperatures, which one can never comfortably achieve in one's own home.

At some point during the afternoon, the appeal of the baths began to grow on me. Far from being time wasted, I found that my mind was at ease as never before. I had a feeling of completeness and indeed repose that I had not anticipated – at least until the moment when the shampooer concluded his work with a resounding smack across my shoulders. My already raw skin took to smarting afresh, and it took all my strength to drag myself from the table and go in search of Miles.

It is far to say that I reeled into the cooling, my mind awhirl with a light-headed feeling that had banished all logical thought and left me with no feeling below my waist. That I still had legs was proved when I stumbled over the feet of a sandy-haired, well-made moustachioed young man quietly sitting reading a hefty tome in one of alcoves.

He let out an exclamation of exasperation, as well he might at having his toes squashed by my lumbering carelessness. The book tumbled from his hand and further added to his woes by landing on his other foot. I remember the brief sight I had of the bookplate as the pages flew open: 'This book belongs to J H W…'

Time has worked its usual mischief in erasing the remainder of the surname from my memory, but sometimes I have to wonder. Was the rest of that name Watson? I have never asked him, for I doubt he would remember, but it has often amused me to question whether the location of our first encounter should really be identified as the cooling room of the Argyll Place Turkish bath house. The notion has a pleasing symmetry to it, seeing how it was a weakness which we later came to share.

For the present moment, however, my mind was set only upon apologising for my blunder. The other fellow took himself off, muttering darkly about 'blithering idiots', and casting his spare towel over his shoulder in a gesture that spoke of his continuing annoyance. I glanced around, found everyone staring at me and felt my already hot cheeks increasing in temperature. To my relief, I caught sight of Miles on the other side of the room and staggered over to join him.

Steamed, bathed and relaxed, he was laying supine on a couch with sheets wrapped around him, smoking a generous cigar and making conservation with another man, a dark-haired, dark-eyed person of about thirty. I lurched across to them, groping my way from table to table for support, and near fell into the only other empty chair in the alcove.

"I say," said the other fellow, eyeing me with concern. "Are you quite well?"

"Just a little giddy," I said, trying to stop the dizzying dance of colours before my vision. "I'll be fine in a moment."

"Of course you will," said Miles. He sat up and clapped his hands. "Coffee, strong, for my cousin," he ordered. The eager-eyed attendant in voluminous trousers and baggy shirt who had come hurrying over now gave a slight bow and scurried away yet again. "Well?" asked Miles smoothly, directing his question at me. "How did you fare?"

"Oh, first timer, are you?" asked his companion of me.

"Yes, can you believe such a thing possible in this day and age?" said Miles. "Let me introduce you. This is my cousin, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Mr Langdale Pike."

We shook hands. Pike offered me a most genial smile. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. So, you're Miles's cousin, are you? I must say, the similarity is quite remarkable. It must be quite an experience for you, coming down to London for the first time. Quite a change from Derbyshire, eh?"

I glanced over at Miles. His expression was inscrutable.

"Like a fish out of water, I dare say," Pike went on pleasantly. "Good thing for you that you've got your cousin to show you the ropes. Too many ne'er-do-wells in London. You should be on your guard, Mr Holmes."

"Yes, I will, thank you," I said, eyeing Miles with annoyance. Whatever tale he had been spinning seemed to involve casting me in the role of country innocent, a liberty I did not intend to leave uncorrected. "Although in fact I have been in town for some time. I moved here after I left university."

"Left?" Pike's eyebrows rose. "An interesting choice of words, Mr Holmes. You mean you didn't complete your degree? You weren't sent down, were you?"

"No, it was my choice."

"It seems to be a failing that runs in our family," observed Miles. "Not that it did me any harm."

"Or Shelley," Pike remarked absently. "He was at Bart's for a while. Came from a family of medicos. What are you doing in London, Mr Holmes?"

The sudden change in subject caught me off-guard, as I imagined was his intent. Telling him the truth was out of the question; if one has to lie, it is always best grounded in some form of reality, however slim.

"My brother wants me to take a position in a government department."

Pike's face fell. "Oh, my dear boy, how dull, how _prosaic_. Any fool can take a job in government and, believe me, most of them do. Take my advice, Mr Holmes, and fight it."

"I intend to do so," I replied, inwardly smiling for I knew that that particular impasse had been resolved to my satisfaction.

"Ah, wise fellow. You have a fancy to follow in Miles's footsteps?"

"I'm not sure I have the stamina for it."

Miles let out a hearty laugh as the sweaty-faced, rubicund attendant returned with the coffee. A cup of what looked like black mud was thrust under my nose and I was urged to drink. The aroma was heady enough; the taste was enough to rot my back teeth. The only thing to be said in its favour was that it did have the desired effect and my head cleared in an instant. I thanked the attendant, who bowed and said that if I should need anything else, I had only to ask.

"I do so enjoy coming here," said Miles, drawing on his cigar. "Nothing is too much trouble. The employees are so very obliging."

"Unlike that chap you blundered into just now," said Pike, looking to me. "I thought he made a great deal of fuss about nothing. These clerks do give themselves airs and graces above their station."

"He was a medical student in his final year," I corrected him.

"Beg your pardon?"

"He was reading _Grey's Anatomy_," I explained. "One doesn't bring a valuable book like that into these conditions unless for a very good reason. I should say he was studying for his final examinations."

"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Pike. "But if what you say is true, why come here at all?"

"His back was paining him," said I. "Probably caused by that ill-advised rugby tackle."

Pike chuckled. "Now you jest, Mr Holmes, surely!"

"Not at all. He had bruises down his right-hand side and grazes on his elbow. He never got those playing cricket."

"Well, I never! What a fine trick."

"No trick, Mr Pike, simply observation and deduction."

"Or he told you," Pike said, mischievously sceptical. "Come now, if it's true what you say, tell me what I do for a living."

"You're a journalist, you write a column – likely as not reporting on society events and gossip – under an assumed name and you're originally from Cumbria."

The confident grin fell from his face. "How the deuce did you—"

"The calluses on your index and middle fingers, Mr Pike, where one holds a pen are particularly pronounced, indicating that your occupation is one that involves a great deal of writing, more than might be usually expected in the course of one's day. I discount clerk or some such other occupation on the grounds that only a journalist would bring his notebook into the Turkish bath and only need it when talking to my cousin."

I gestured to the small black journal that was half concealed beneath his thigh.

"The cover is somewhat worn, suggesting that it is a treasured item, although the initials, S.P., are at variance with your given name; therefore, you employ a pseudonym."

Pike nodded, somewhat numbly, and wetted his dry lips. "Well, Mr Holmes, it is all true what you say, and now you explain it, I feel rather absurd for having asked. Indeed, 'Langdale Pike' is my professional alias and I do write society columns, at present for the less estimable papers—"

"He means the Grub Street press," Miles interjected.

Pike winced. "Miles has always been most kind in keeping me informed as to certain affairs and scandals," said he. "Without his help, I dare say I should still be lingering at the police courts and writing about petty thefts and burglaries."

"And 'S.P.'?"

"My real name, Selwyn Pratt." He smiled uneasily. "You see now why I changed it. Not many society columnists carve out a career for themselves with a name like Selwyn Pratt. But tell me, Mr Holmes, how did you know I came originally from Cumbria?"

"The slight remnant of accent I detect in your speech and your choice of name. The hills called the Langdale Pikes are a feature of that county, are they not?"

"Indeed, they are. I grew up in Ambleside, in their shadow as it were."

"So when it came to choosing an alias, naturally your thoughts turned to home."

"Well, I never," said he, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're a sly one, Mr Holmes, a wolf in sheep's clothing if ever I saw. You aren't what you seem at all. I expect that rather nasty scar I see on your side has some unexpected tale attached to it as well."

"He got that duelling, would you believe?" said Miles. "Fought a fellow over a lady's honour and killed the fellow."

"Really?" said Pike. He drew out his notebook and licked the end of his pencil. "Would you mind if I took a few notes?"

"Yes, I would," I protested. "It wasn't like that at all."

"Care to tell the tale in your own way? Although the touch about the lady's honour I like; it appeals to the readers of my column. Mind if I keep that bit in and fabricate it a little?"

Before I could raise an objection, a shrill, petulant voice rose loud and raucous over the murmured hush of the cooling room.

"Jocelyn!"

The colour drained from Miles's face. "Blast it all, it's my brother," he muttered. "No, don't turn around."

"How do you know it's him?"

Miles gave me a withering look. "Only Endymion ever calls me Jocelyn." He threw himself down on the couch and pulled a sheet over his head. "Be good fellows and tell him I'm dead, won't you?"

I glanced across the room to where a lean gentleman with a severe countenance, heavily swathed in towels and waving his hand at us in the most presumptuous manner, was striding purposefully in our direction. This vision in white with pale spindly legs to match halted beside us and looked down the length of his patrician nose at us. For the first time, I was able to take stock of my cousin, less like his namesake, the handsome youth of Greek myth beloved by the moon goddess, being more akin to an egregious bird of prey fallen on hard times.

"I want to speak to my brother," he announced. "Kindly inform him of my presence."

"Ah, he's… not here," said Pike delicately. "You just missed him."

"Fiddlesticks!" Endymion pulled back the sheets from the sheet figure on the couch. "There you are, Jocelyn. Didn't you hear me calling you?"

"Yes," said Miles, forcing himself upright. "Why do you think I hid?"

"Because you delight in tormenting me. Small things please small minds, Jocelyn."

"What do you want?"

Endymion's face creased into frown of disgust. "Necessity brings me here, for I knew this is where I would find you, as usual. This place reeks of idleness! Look at your companions. Young indolent men, good-for-nothing loungers, idling their time away—"

"Endymion," Miles began wearily.

"Wallowing in this orgy of sloth, this pit of stenchful pulchritude—"

"Brother, this young fellow—"

"This breeding ground of mountebanks, foplings and parasites, this—"

"Is your cousin, Sherlock."

"Benedict's boy?" Endymion said aghast, his tirade forgotten as he stared at me in astonishment. "The one with croup, bandy legs and that unsightly rash?"

Pike smothered a laugh. Miles groaned. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.

"What is he doing here?" Endymion wanted to know.

"The same as you, brother. Enjoying the pleasures of the baths."

Endymion gave a snort of annoyance. "I am not here for enjoyment. I regard every minute here as a test of endurance. I am here for my health. Everybody knows that the baths fortify the body against colds and influenza, and my chest, as you know, is delicate."

"You aren't just here to see me then?"

"Unhappy coincidence," said Endymion. "My bags were stolen at Victoria. Can you believe such a thing? Disgraceful! And, I must say, inconvenient. The bishop is holding one of his diocesan dinners tonight and I simply must be there if I am to have any hope of ever regaining his favour. I have nothing to wear, Jocelyn, and you know my credit is regrettably poor at the moment."

Miles sighed and got to his feet. "Will you excuse me, gentlemen, while I attend to this minor disturbance in an otherwise pleasurable afternoon?"

He took his brother by the arm and fairly marched him in the direction of the changing rooms. When they had gone, I caught Pike watching me with a smile of amusement on his face. I attempted to make light of the embarrassing situation.

"I never had croup," I said. "As for the legs, they sorted themselves out."

"And the rash?"

"Chickenpox."

Pike grinned. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"Is any secret ever safe with any journalist?"

"Not with others of my profession perhaps, but I pride myself on my discretion. I do not bite the hand that feeds me."

"Miles, you mean."

Pike nodded as he poured himself another cup of coffee.

"I was wondering about that," I said. "Why would Miles willingly conspire with the press? From what I understand, he is seldom out of the gossip columns."

"Because he likes the attention? As for me, I believe he rather enjoys the idea of having a tame journalist to do his bidding. It appeals to his vanity. After all, one does not keep a dog and bark oneself. I, in turn, have picked up some tasty morsels that have dropped from the 'rich man's table'. Yes, it is an arrangement which sits well with us both. It has made my name known in certain circles… and respected. You should read my column."

"I fear not. I read nothing but the criminal news and the agony columns."

Pike looked at me with interest. "You have most singular taste in your selection of reading matter, Mr Holmes. Might I ask then, why your current association with Miles, if as you profess you have little interest in his circle?"

I realised I would have to be careful in the future what I told the perceptive Langdale Pike. He had that alert and inquiring mind that distinguishes the talented journalist from his lacklustre peers, and which would indeed in time cause him to rise high in his profession. For the moment, however, he had been fast to notice the discrepancies in my story and I had some explaining to do if I were to convince him as to my motives.

"It is ignorance rather than lack of interest that has dictated my choices up till now," I explained. "I see now that I have been somewhat insular. Miles has offered to take me under his wing and make me worldlier. Although I must confess that I am not entirely uninformed. For instance, a friend was telling me about a man called Ricoletti."

"The chiromancer?"

The chance to probe a source close to the object of my investigation was too good to miss. "Have you met him?" I asked.

Pike took a sip of his coffee and sat back in his chair. "Interesting fellow. Says he can read your fortune in the palm of your hand, but then there's an old woman down on the corner of Threadneedle Street who says she can do the same with tea leaves. One doesn't know what to believe these days."

"But you do believe him to be a fraud?"

"Did I say that? Ricoletti has many admirers who would happily swear to his talent. Oh, it is not too hard to do. Anyone with a fair knowledge of society affairs could do a passable job. Tell a known gambler that he should beware of the tables lest he lose his fortune, that sort of thing. On the other hand, he has had some notable successes."

"Lady Anstead, you mean."

Pike's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Your friend is well-informed. But yes, that incident did serve to make him famous. He told Lady Anstead that she would never wed young Sir George Graham, and he was right; she was dead two days before the wedding, just as Ricoletti had predicted."

"How?"

Pike shrugged. "Magic? A fortuitous guess? Lady Anstead was eighty-two, so that she died was not completely unexpected."

"But the timing."

"Ah, well, that is beyond the bounds of my understanding. I would just say that if one makes a hundred same-such predictions, then surely one must hit the target."

"Then you do have doubts about him?"

"Doubts about whom?" came a voice from above my head.

I glanced up to find that Miles had returned in time to catch the end of our conversation. Whatever had passed between him and his brother had caused him to lose his easy languor of earlier and now his expression was tense.

"You will doubtless be pleased to hear that I have dealt with Endymion and he will bother us no more. Whether the bishop will be pleased to see him tonight is another matter, especially after what happened last time."

"What happened?" I asked.

Pike leaned forward to share the confidence. "He called Mrs Albright a harlot for suggesting that corsets damaged a lady's posture and that womankind would be better off without them." He grinned. "Mrs Albright is the bishop's goddaughter."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he had a hand in diverting Endymion's luggage," said Miles. "He has as much chance of worming his way back into the bishop's favour as I have of making it to the House of Lords. Langdale, could I prevail upon you—"

Pike held up his hand. "I have already forgotten it, my dear fellow. Your brother does not need my attention; he's quite capable of making himself notorious without the help of the press. But I wonder, Miles, will you be attending Lady Forebury's soiree this evening? I understand she is most desirous of your presence."

"Regrettably, no. There is a ball at St James's in honour of Lady Selina Horsely's birthday. Normally, I would not set foot in the place, but it is as good as any to introduce a young gentleman to the melee."

"You do like taking risks, Miles," said Pike with a chuckle. "There is a rumour that both Mrs Canning and Madame de Mont St Jean are planning to attend. You shall have the devil of job keeping both happy."

Miles smiled faintly. "I have a plan to distract Madame's attention."

"Naturally." Pike's gaze turned to me. "Your friend, Ricoletti, will also be there. You shall have the opportunity to observe his methods first-hand."

"What is your interest in him?" asked Miles.

"Your cousin was asking me whether I thought he was a charlatan."

Miles considered. "I do hope so. He told me I would be dead before I was fifty. Now, come, Sherlock, time is pressing and we have an appointment at the tailors. Until tonight, Langdale."

* * *

_**Phew! It was mighty steamy in there. So, Mr Holmes, go to the ball you shall!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Three!**_

* * *

[1] The Argyll Place baths were open 1860-1902. I would have _loved_ to have made the setting for this chapter in the Northumberland Avenue Turkish Baths, but – alas! – they did not open for business until 1884, which is where Holmes and Watson were to be found in 1902, on two adjacent couches, smoking in the drying room, sharing "a weakness for the Turkish bath" (ILLU).


	4. Chapter Three

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Three: The ball at St James's Hall**

"Welcome to the cattle market."

There are few occasions in my life when I can admit to experiencing a true sense of intimidation. The first time was several months before when I had put myself in the unenviable position of parading before an expectant and slightly inebriated audience in the guise of a petty reader of minds. The second was as I walked into the reception of the bustling ballroom of St James's Hall.

Dante had his vision of hell; this was mine.

I would have turned around and left, but for Miles's restraining hand on my arm. "Not so fast, cousin," said he. "I have expended a good deal of time and some not inconsiderable outlay of funds to secure your admission this evening. Now you are here, you will not do me the discourtesy of embarrassing me by your sudden disappearance."

Miles forced me on, into the heart of the gaudy, chattering throng, to join a queue of ladies and gentlemen paying their respects to the ball's hostess, Lady Walton. It was a little after ten, and already I was sore, chaffed by an overzealous application of starch to my collar, and not a little tired, although whether a reaction to my surroundings or the lingering effects of my recent misadventures I was at a loss to say. Certainly no one around me betrayed any sign that the hour was an inconvenient one: every lady appeared as dewy as the flowers in their hair, from the youngest fresh-faced maidens to their matronly chaperones, whose greying, aging flesh had been assisted by the careful application of rouge and powder to produce the incongruous effect of apple cheeks.

When our turn came, Lady Walton, a somewhat unremarkable woman with a vacant smile and strained expression, was quite transformed when her eye lit upon Miles. She was effusive in her welcome and he all charm in return. I have often wondered why Miles never married. He had a natural empathy and consideration for the sex which he worked skilfully to his advantage. He was a flatterer, no doubt, but with a way of expressing himself that made one feel it was sincere, as though his words were spoken for the listener's ears alone. Lady Walton had been reduced to a simpering ingénue in his presence, her husband to the state of uncouth fool, and all achieved with a single kiss.

I took my crumbs from the better man's table that night, and basked in his reflected glory. After his peacock splendour, I fear I was something of a disappointment, although Lady Walton was pleasant enough and expressed the hope that I would enjoy the evening. Any friend (and cousins, I assumed) of Miles were always welcome, she assured me, gazing after him with a look that made me think she wished they were better acquainted.

By contrast, her husband clasped my hand in a bear-like grip and asked for some account of myself. I could not tell him that I was here to conduct a surreptitious investigation of one of his guests – I fear that would have stretched the bounds of etiquette too far – and so fell back on tales of the country cousin come to London to seek his fortune.

"And," said he, his bewhiskered jowls wobbling in patricianly suspicion, "what is it you do, Mr Holmes?"

I gathered he had cast himself into the role of guardian of the evening's morals. Whatever he thought of Miles, he could not prevent his entrance, given his wife's evident approval. I, however, the outsider, was an entirely different prospect. A few words in the right ears, and I could find myself ostracised and without Miles's natural advantages in persuading people to the contrary.

The solution to my problem was absurdly simple: to find some plausible story and back it to the hilt. If one is to play a role, whether music hall performer or club menial, some preparation is required to perfect one's story. It was an ability in which I took some justifiable pride, although on this occasion it appeared to have deserted me. I could not say why, except that trying to play was myself was a role I found most disquieting.

Miles, thankfully, came to my rescue. "My cousin, his elder brother, is in government, with expectations that Mr Holmes will follow the same illustrious path. Perhaps you are acquainted, Lord Walton, with a Mr Mycroft Holmes?"

"Good heavens," he declared. "Yes, I know the fellow. Devilishly intelligent." Doubt had turned into approval within seconds. "Fine fellow, your brother," said he, near wrenching my arm from its socket as he once more pumped vigorously at my hand. "You can't go far wrong following in his footsteps, young man."

I winced, assured him I would do my best, and extracted my crushed fingers from his grasp. "How fortunate that Lord Walton knew Mycroft," I remarked to Miles when we were removed to a safe distance.

"Luck had nothing to do with it. His family has been in government for generations, and the current administration didn't like to disappoint him by suggesting that his brains weren't quite on a par with those of his ancestors. So they gave him an office with a hearty fire and copious amounts of whisky, and there they let him sleep, waking him only when it's time to go home. A most satisfactory arrangement for all concerned." He grinned conspiratorially. "And for you, dear cousin, because now you have acquired that lure that mothers of eligible daughters find most attractive, namely good prospects."

"But it's a lie."

"How many times must I tell you that appearances are everything? As a rule, people willingly believe what they wish to be true, even if it isn't."

"Your wisdom, Miles?"

"No, Julius Caesar. Although seeing where it got him, I have my doubts."

I allowed myself to be guided into the lofty expanse of the ballroom, where the double tier of sofas was already beginning to fill with proud mothers and blushing daughters. I had a momentary impression of a sea of flowers, fans, velvets, silks and muslins before I was hauled into the tea-room where a table had been laid with refreshments.

A number of glances darted in our direction as we entered and I caught whispered enquiries as to the identity of the unknown young man in their midst. Miles diverted me to a corner, away from their curiosity, took two glasses from the table and pressed one into my hand.

"Drink," he ordered. "You look as though you need it. There is nothing like a good wine for stiffening one's resolve in the face of adversity." He sipped and grimaced. "And this is nothing like a good wine. My word, standards are slipping."

"I should rather keep my senses about me," I said, disdaining his offer. "I feel I shall have need of them this night."

Miles chuckled. "Why, Sherlock, you are as nervous as Reynard in the foxhounds' kennels. What is it that worries you? You're not embarrassed by your circumstances?"

"What circumstances?"

"Quite," he grunted. "However, this concern on your part is quite needless. Poverty is the normal condition for the majority of the people here tonight. One should never pay one's bills on time; it confuses the lower orders and creates the unfavourable impression that one has money, which is lamentably vulgar. Living beyond one's means is expected. Only the middling sorts attempt to do otherwise."

"I'm not sure your creditors would agree with that sentiment."

"They enjoy the chase, dear boy. Nothing worthwhile was ever achieved easily. One may equally apply that ethos to this evening, surely the most absurd and inconvenient invention for bringing young people together that has ever been dreamt of by man. Cattle market, marriage market – it is all the same, just conducted in warmer surroundings."

"Then what are you doing here?"

Miles gave me a sharp look. "Come to that, cousin, what are _you_?" He let the thought hang until a smile rose to soften his features. "Well, I must not pry. Better men than you have come to the altar with affection in their hearts less for their brides than for their purses. If you hope to have success, you must overcome this natural diffidence of yours. You cannot simply turn up at a ball and expect happy coincidence to throw good fortune in your direction."

He cast a critical eye over my appearance, stiff as I was in black tail coat of the finest material, matching trousers and just the hint of gold at my cuffs. Tugging the bottom of my white waistcoat to smooth out the wrinkles, he murmured his approval.

"I really must congratulate my tailor the next time I see him," said he. "He has managed the impossible – the impression of wealth without it having any basis in reality. You have at least managed to stay tidy, although your bearing would become a country loafer. Hold your head high and remember who your ancestors were, solid Norman stock, dull in wits and ambition, but loyal to king and country."

"When it suited them," I countered, fiddling with my uncomfortable collar. "Sir Hugonin de Holmesey lost his head for supporting Monmouth."

"Ah, but he was the best dressed gentleman on the scaffold," said Miles. "His last words were to express his deepest regret that he had not been offered the silk rope, for the loss of his head would surely play havoc with his sartorial eloquence. One cannot argue with him on that point." He batted my hand from my neck. "Don't fiddle with yourself. People will think you have fleas."

"Miles, I can hardly breathe."

"Then you find yourself in good company. I would wager that half the ladies here tonight will admit to feeling light-headed at some point during the evening and at least one will manage to create a stir by fainting. Bear your discomfiture, cousin: it would be unconscionable if you usurp the ladies' privilege by lapsing into unconsciousness before they do. Speaking of which…" He hesitated. "I wouldn't normally be so blunt, Sherlock, but the question is bound to arise. Is there anyone who has caught your eye?"

I shook my head. My interest was not in finding a wife, but a fraudulent palmist by the name of Ricoletti.

"I dare say no room in the world can this night boast so many beauties," said Miles, "and yet you are not smitten by one of them. What a strange boy you are. Am I to assume a less than exciting past? Yes, as I thought. You didn't strike me as the Casanova type. Good heavens, didn't you learn anything at university?"

"I studied, Miles."

"Then I fear you wasted your time. Theory is all very well, but it can never trump empiricism. As impossible as it is to be a theoretical vegetarian, the same is true when it comes to the lover." He paused. "They don't bite, you know."

"Who?" I said irritably.

"The female sex. Oh, they have claws and teeth aplenty, but tonight all are closely sheathed, I can assure you. However," said he with a heartfelt sigh, "we were all novices in the art of love once. Would you believe there was a time when I was considered shy?"

"No, I wouldn't believe it."

"I overcame it very quickly. One does when faced with the prospect of having to support three orphaned siblings without an ounce of intelligence between them."

"You exaggerate. Mycroft said that you inherited a considerable fortune."

"Well, who am I to argue with your brother? What else did he tell you?"

"Very little, save that he has expressed disapproval before now for your way of life. He has said that you are… disreputable."

Miles smiled. "I have been called worse. And yet, to such a disreputable individual, he has entrusted the care of his only brother. Does that not strike you as strange?"

Knowing Mycroft's reasons, it did not. Had Miles been privy to those facts, I dare say he would have been less than impressed and liable to terminate the exercise. As onerous as the evening would prove to be, I had a duty to perform. If in the pursuit of it, I had to endure the company of my increasingly inscrutable cousin, then the sooner it was done the better, for all concerned.

I was spared further examination by the sudden and timely appearance of a serious-faced man in the uniform of a naval officer, who approached us with great speed, causing a stir from the people he scattered in his wake. His high colour, staring eyes and ragged breathing gave the impression of one on the verge of nervous collapse.

"Miles, thank God I've found you," said he, clasping my cousin's hand with a force of passion. "I had hoped you would be here tonight. Do you have it? Say you have it!"

Miles was clearly moved by this display of emotion and I noticed the wary sideways glance he cast in my direction. "Theo," said he, "allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, my friend, Lieutenant Theodore Henry Fairfax of _HMS Perseus_."

Fairfax, dark, troubled and fretful, spared me the most perfunctory of greetings before switching his attention back to my cousin. "Miles, please, I need to know," said he. "Helena is here tonight. If one word was ever to reach her ears, it would break her heart."

"Have faith," said Miles. "I do not have it yet, but soon I will."

Fairfax's distress grew. "I sail on Monday. It must be paid by then or else I am ruined. For God's sake, Miles—"

"All is in hand, my friend," said he soothingly. "It will be done."

"Without it…" Fairfax shuddered. "Better that I was dead than that I ever cause that dear soul any distress."

"Do not speak of such things." Miles's voice was firm, in stark contrast to the soaring agitation of the other man. Even I began to feel reassured, despite guessing only dimly to what they eluded. "Calm yourself. Find your pretty fiancée and make the most of the evening. You will be a long time at sea, and it may be many months before you get this opportunity again."

His friend sobered. "You are the best of men," said he, shaking Miles's hand warmly. "In you I place my trust and my future happiness."

With his heartfelt thanks ringing in our ears, the unhappy fellow departed and was once again swallowed up in the crowd.

"Theo is a dear boy," Miles remarked, "but he lacks discretion. You understand his unfortunate situation?"

"He is being blackmailed and you have pledged to help him."

"Indeed. Most generous, aren't I?"

"You should go to the police."

"No, that is quite out of the question. The police are not our allies in this."

"And the blackmailer is?"

"It is a matter of a simple business transaction. He has something to sell, and we wish to buy at the sum specified. The involvement of the police at this juncture would, I am sorry to say, only confuse the issue."

"How much is he asking?"

"One thousand pounds."

If the amount shocked him, he did not show it. I, however, was appalled. "This man must be stopped," said I. "By paying, you encourage his villainy. If you do not expose him, then another will fall victim."

"Then let them go to the police. Why should Theo bear the brunt? Besides, the sum is not onerous. Doubtless he could go to his elder brother for the money, but that would mean his confiding certain facts of which his sibling, being something typical of the class to which he was born, would not approve. Normally, I would have had the money by now, but circumstances have not been in my favour. I will get it, however, and Theo will be free to marry without the fear of public exposure. That will be an end of the matter."

"It's never as simple as that."

Miles regarded me with something approaching weary patience. "You make too much of a trifle, Sherlock, as does Theo. If one moves in such circles, one must accept blackmail as a fact of life."

"You condone this man's actions?"

"No. I simply state that such things are to be expected. History has shown us that the quickest way of gaining a fortune is to take it from someone else. Kings, nobles, highwaymen – all operate to the same basic principles. Our blackmailer is no different, except that he threatens scandal rather than one's life. Theo, being of good birth, was an obvious target, given that he has recently become engaged. That he is a fifth son and has a fancy for a life on the high seas complicates matters in terms of his finances, which is why he has come to me."

"And how will you raise the money?"

"Ah, well there we must have a little amnesty. Needless to say, tonight was not arranged solely for your benefit. Which reminds me, there is someone I want you to meet."

He led the way into the ballroom, craning his head above the whispering crowd and finally expressing an exclamation of satisfaction when he glimpsed the person he sought. We threaded our way through the chairs to a sofa where a lady reposed with a young man in attendance, who appeared to be hanging on her every word. When she saw Miles, the would-be admirer was promptly dismissed, much to his chagrin, and her face lit with such an expression of delight that there was little doubt as to the nature of their relationship.

"Célestine," said he, sitting beside her on the couch and kissing her hand with a reverence that seemed faintly salacious, "tu es aussi belle que jamais."

Showered with such praise, she unfurled and purred as happily as any pampered cat. She was perhaps forty and yet was as handsome as any of her young rivals present that night, the more so for the refinement that age had brought to her striking features. Superficially, she appeared to be one of those placid, languid creatures with a slow, wide smile, except that her dark eyes, the equal in colour to her coiled hair, betrayed a fiery nature behind the mask of welcome. I had the strangest impression of moving from shade into light, as one who finds himself suddenly lit by the brilliance of the sun. She radiated pleasure, decadence some might say, and smiled upon her favourite as one with a mind to be flattered and a will to bestow her favours.

"Miles, mon chéri," said she, "it has been too long. Où es-tu été? I have missed you terribly."

"Regrettably detained, my love – and now I long to lay my devotion at the feet of the most attractive lady in England."

"Only in England?"

"Dans le monde. Dans l'univers. Les étoiles très parler de votre grande beauté."

"My dear sweet boy," she laughed, stroking his cheek. "Tu es comme dans exquise gentillesse que vous êtes en charme. But I am not so foolish to believe your flattery is for nothing. I know you too well. Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"

He smiled in almost predatory fashion. "I want to tell you my sins, my lady."

Madame laughed. "Are they worth hearing?"

"Sans aucun doute."

"Then I shall enjoy your visit. You will stay?"

"Hélas, pas de. Other duties keep me from your side – at least, until tonight. However, you shall not be lonely. Permettez-moi de présenter mon cousin, M. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my dear friend, Mme de Mont St Jean."

She offered her hand. I, somewhat taken aback by the conversation which appeared to have been as much for my benefit as theirs, decided I could do no better than the example laid before me. I looked up to find that Madame wore a most enigmatic smile, whilst was nodding approvingly.

"Il est très beau," said she. "You will keep me company, won't you, Monsieur?"

"Of course he shall," said Miles. "If one is to learn, who better a teacher than yourself, Célestine?" He kissed her hand and rose to leave. "Pardonnez-moi, douce dame. Believe that I shall be incomplete until we meet again."

I stalled him as he tried to pass. "Where are you going?"

"I have things to do, cousin. Entertain Madame for me."

This, I gathered, had been Miles's intention all along. Langdale Pike had spoken of two ladies competing for his affections that night, and it was no great feat of deduction to realise that he had conspired to use me to keep them apart.

"Au revoir, for now," said he. "Soyez doux avec mon cousin, il est très timide."

"Miles, I understood that," I protested.

"Then you know what is expected of you. Time to overcome that reticence of yours. Consider this a baptism of fire." He patted me on the chest. "I leave Célestine in your safe hands. And remember, Sherlock, it is considered the height of bad manners to disappoint a lady."

With that, he was gone. I had two options: to run, like the rabbit who hears the approach of the farmer with his gun, or to go along with the charade until such time as I could invent a suitable excuse to leave. The former was perhaps the most judicious, but as Miles had reminded me, to do so, even in the most testing of circumstances, would be a most lamentable breach of etiquette. I saw that I would have to resign myself to the task.

Madame patted the space on the settee beside her and dutifully I took it, putting a respectable distance between us. She moved across and I shifted over as far I could until I was trapped between the lady and the arm of the sofa.

"So, Monsieur Holmes," said she, placing her hand just above my knee, "why don't you tell me all about yourself?"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Four!**_


	5. Chapter Four

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Four: ****First Impressions**

If one believes all one reads in popular fiction, social gatherings of the good and virtuous lead to fortuitous meetings, wedding bells and eternal marital bliss. I had read nothing about young men of good background and superb education being pawed over by overenthusiastic women with scant regard for the disapproving glances of the elderly matrons around them.

In my defence, I am sure I gave Madame de Mont St Jean little encouragement; not that the lady needed any, for she was quite practised at the art of seduction without any help from me at all.

I had shifted further and further to my left until I was near bent double over the arm of the sofa, and still the lady pressed her case, not to mention her hand which lay now somewhat immodestly on my upper thigh. Had I been able, I would have fled the scene; pride has it limits after all. I had done as much before when a corpulent stage performer, whose strength was quite the equal of her ardour, had taken the notion into her head that I was the undisputed object of her affections. As ignoble as flight may be, it has much to recommend it that dogged persistence lacks.

In light of this attempted mauling, I was starting to wonder whether the fault did not lie on my side. My attempts at indifference, which I had thought were pointed, were having the opposite effect. Perhaps I should have adopted the tactic of speaking long and volubly about myself and showing these poor deluded creatures just what an uninteresting fellow I really was.

For the present, however, there was no escape. I had been placed in this unenviable position by a cousin whose peccadilloes seemed to overrule his good sense and who had promptly vanished leaving me to extricate myself from an awkward situation. I had no wish to offend, but neither did I have the slightest inclination of wasting an evening in idle banter, however charming my companion, when I was led to believe that my quarry was present and somewhere in the room.

"So, Monsieur Holmes," purred the lady, "what is it that you do?"

Telling her the truth was likely either to meet with derision if I was disbelieved, or outrage and immediate expulsion if I was. An invention was required, and the one that came to mind lacked what Miles would have called finesse.

"As little as possible," said I.

If I thought that promoting myself as an idle fellow and thus an unattractive prospect would deter Madame's interest, I was sorely mistaken. She laughed, throwing back her head to reveal a row of the whitest, straightest teeth I had ever seen this close, and the taunt, strangely alluring creamy-white skin of her neck. She was, without doubt, a beautiful creature, dark of eye and hair, and far too free with her hands for either her own good or mine.

"Ah, monsieur, you English gentleman are so amusing. My first husband," she confided, regarding me under heavy eyelids, "il n'est pas amusant. He would not let me dance. Do you dance, Monsieur?"

"Very poorly, I fear."

"Mais ce qui est bon," she said approvingly. "Your cousin does not dance, either. He is the most perfect gentlemen."

The hand wandered again. "How is it that you know my cousin?" I asked, taking a deep, steadying breath.

The lady smiled, cat-like, in the manner of a panther pacing before its prey. "Il est mon ami, monsieur. He has been kind to me, since the death of my poor Henri."

"Henri?"

"My last husband."

"You've had many?"

"Only three…" She considered. "Or four, j'ai oublié. Il est sans conséquence."

It struck me that should I have the misfortune to find myself snared on the thorns of matrimony it was the sort of situation I should never forget. Or least I should endeavour to do so, but fail miserably and be haunted by the enterprise for the rest of my life. Madame, however, was proving to be the sort of woman who went through husbands like the rest of population went through clean handkerchiefs. Worst of all, I perceived that her line of thinking was placing me in the role of prospective husband number five.

It was time to dissuade her of such illusions. I removed her wandering hand from my person and tried my utmost to extract myself from her crushing presence. Madame had other ideas. Her hand grasped mine and held me firmly in place.

"My," said she, "what strong hands you have, Monsieur Holmes, mais très tendre. Your fingers are very long. You are musical, non?"

"I play the violin, tolerably well, so I am told."

"Non, you are gifted. I can tell a great about a man from his hands."

The temptation was too great to resist. "His fortune perhaps?"

She recoiled as though she had been struck. Fanning herself furiously with a lace and feather creation that wafted white gossamer strands in my direction, she turned away from me and glanced back over her shoulder.

"You must not speak of such things, Monsieur," said she with vehemence.

This reaction had caught my interest. I was intrigued. Here at last might be something I could use against my eponymous chiromancer.

"You disapprove, Madame?"

"Oui. Il est odieux. C'est une abomination."

"It seems harmless enough to me."

"No, Monsieur. It is the work of the devil, and he, _he_ is the Devil."

Her flashing eyes had travelled to a point on the other side of the room, where a rotund little man, dapper in dress and with neatly-parted dark hair, had entered the ball room to a rising round of clapping. I caught the whispers, saw the curious glances of the ladies and watched as this unassuming object of everyone's interest was able to command the attention of the room. For the crowd that gathered to worship, he smiled, he laughed and accepted their fawning adulation before leading his adoring rats into the tea room and away from the domain of the matrons of Hamlyn.

If I read Madame's remark correctly, then here at last was the object of my search: the reader of palms and peddler of fortunes, the chiromancer, Ricoletti. It is true to say that I was somewhat disconcerted by this first sighting. The man was nothing like I had expected him to be. He was as far from the handsome, urbane silver-tongued rogue that seems to the stock-in-trade type. That alone was reason enough to give me pause.

Intuition may get one so far, as might imagination, but nothing is so destructive to the logical facilities as prejudice. Everyone I had spoken to thus far had told me of their doubts about Ricoletti, and I had been all too willing to believe them. I had thought that unmasking him for the bounder he undoubtedly was would prove to be elementary. I had _presumed_, a mistake that I have taken pains to avoid ever since.

What I had not counted on was the strength of passion the man was able to generate, both in his favour and against. To my mind, there was no question that this little fellow was a fraud and a bounder of the worst variety. That so many people were willing to believe otherwise, nay, even to take their own lives on the basis of his predictions, as had the unfortunate Bassett, then it spoke of something far more intangible than outward appearances could present. Charm may take a man so far; plausibility will carry him the rest. _Cur me posse negem, posse quod ille putat,_ as the Latin poet has it [1].

It presented me with something of a challenge. If it is true that what you do in this world is of no consequence, but it is what you can make people _believe_ you have done that counts, then what chance did I have convincing anyone otherwise about Ricoletti? If the masses were credulous enough to credit him with powers of foresight, then breaking his spell was going to be harder than I had imagined.

I was not entirely discouraged. The vehemence with which those dark eyes had turned to jet suggested the unpleasant memory of a past transaction. Madame suddenly presented a far more interesting prospect than previously. Far from wanting to escape, I now wanted to hear more. If that meant allowing certain liberties to be taken with my person, it would have to be borne in the interests of the greater good.

I drew nearer. She did not look round. I touched her bare shoulder and the smooth flesh quivered under my hand.

"You do not like Signor Ricoletti?" I asked gently.

"Non," said she. "He is an evil man."

"He seems innocuous enough to me."

She turned her face to mine, reaching up to touch my cheek. "You are so very young and very beautiful, mais si vous êtes innocent."

"I do not believe I am."

"Compared to Ricoletti, yes, you are. Stay away from him, Monsieur. Promise me you will!"

If only the female sex was able to apply logic to its behaviour, how much simpler the world would be for us all. Some elusive secret was being dangled before me only to be snatched from my grasp with vague entreaties to make promises which I could not possibly keep. Until Madame told me her reasoning for this remarkable request, I had no intention of giving an answer one way or another. The caprices of women being what they were, this loathing Ricoletti had engendered in her could have been nothing more than his telling her that one day her looks must fade. I had hopes for so much more, however.

"Tell me first why."

"I cannot."

I have only so much patience with such foolishness. "Why do you fear him? Tell me!"

Still she resisted. "Mai Dieu me pardonne, je ne peux pas!"

"I can help you, Madame, but only if you trust me."

"You?" she said, pityingly. "Poor foolish boy, what can you do against a man like Ricoletti?"

"If you know something about him, if he has done something, let it be known."

A delicate but intrusive cough brought an end to our conversation. A young man in smart black and gold livery had appeared at my side, bearing an expression of faint and obsequious amusement.

"Mr Holmes?" said the steward in that calculated manner employed by those given a pretty dose of authority and who take great delight in exercising it. "Mr Sherlock Holmes? Your presence is requested in the tea-room."

"Why?"

"I was told that a question has been raised over the nature of your invitation, _sir_."

It was the way he said that raised my ire. If I was be judged by a smirking, spotty-faced youth in the powdered wig and stockings of a previous century, I would have preferred to have been guilty of the crime of which I stood accused.

I had been on the cusp of revelation; now the moment had passed, it was unlikely to be recaptured so readily. Madame would be on her guard and able to fend off my further interest. Indeed, this interruption had already allowed her to recover her composure.

"Why, monsieur," said she, as flirtatious as ever, "I do believe that Lord Walton is going to ask you to leave."

She tapped me playfully on the chin. In some respects, I was glad to be escaping, in others not so.

"If leave I must, I trust that our paths may yet cross again."

"Be sure that they will, monsieur. Vous mai dépendent."

With a final bow, I took my leave. I had the indignity of following a pace behind the self-important youth whilst the gathering whispered wondering behind hands and fans about what seemed to be my forthcoming disgrace. If a question there was, quite how I was to answer it when Miles, who had made the arrangements, was nowhere to be found was going to be a problem. Most galling of all was the thought that I had come tantalisingly close to the object of my interest and was about to be ejected from this company without ever having a chance to speak with the man.

Making a scene, however, would achieve nothing, except to ensure that the doors of polite society would be forever closed against me. After that, my task would be infinitely more difficult; I would, in effect, be sent to a metaphorical Coventry and, charming city that it is, having been there once before, I was in hurry to return. So it was that I followed, meekly, the whipped puppy with his tail between his legs into a room that seemed to have been set apart for the use of a lady and her companion.

The steward indicated that we were to wait, and thus in silence, we stood in attendance whilst the lady was helped into a large armchair, the cushions plumped and propped up behind her and a padded footstool place under her feet. When this rigmarole was complete, she deigned to acknowledge our presence.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes," said the steward, stepping aside to allow the lady to better study me and taking his leave. "As you requested, Lady Agnes."

She looked me up and down with the sort of disdainful expression usually reserved for when one is presented with a dish that fails to live up to its flamboyant name. She was as slender as a dry wand, and her voice had almost more body than her flesh. The austere blue eyes that settled on my face, however, held an inner depth of shrewdness that put me on my guard. Age and the physical decay wrought by an illness that had tinged her skin an unnatural hue of grey had seemingly left her as frail and delicate as gossamer, but in the firmness of the hand that gripped the handle of her cane, the determined set of her jaw and the proud angle of her head I was left in no doubt who was mistress here.

"I am Lady Agnes Markham," she stated. "I am not familiar with your name, Mr Holmes. At whose invitation are you here?"

"My cousin, Miles, he—"

"I know who he is. I am well acquainted with _Debrett's._ I was not aware that the gentleman had a cousin called 'Sherlock'." Her keen gaze held mine. "However, it is not every colt that appears in the stud book. I see the resemblance and am satisfied that you are who you claim to be."

"Thank you, Lady Agnes."

"Which leads me to my next question: what are you doing here?"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Five!**_

* * *

[1] "Why should I deny possession of that which he believes me to possess?" (Ausonius)


	6. Chapter Five

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Five: A Chiromancer named Ricoletti**

"Well, Mr Holmes, what is your answer?" the lady repeated severely. "What is your purpose here tonight?"

"I hope to enter the social circles of my cousin," I stated with as much sincerity as I could muster.

I fear I did not impress. A long pause ensued, in which I was keenly aware that I was under the double scrutiny of Lady Agnes and her companion. A plain, dour woman with a down-turned mouth and permanent scowl of dissatisfaction, she stood at her mistress's shoulder, her face a mirror of disapproval. She seemed vaguely disappointed when her presence was no longer required.

"Thank you, Jane, that will be all," said Lady Agnes, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. "Take some refreshment, my dear. I'll send word if I need you." With a curtsy and a withering glare in my direction, the woman took her leave. Alone with the dutiful companion gone, Lady Agnes relaxed a little. "Sit down, Mr Holmes. We should talk, you and I."

I took the seat she indicated to her left. "I was under the impression that it was Lord Walton who wished to see me."

"Walton is my nephew-in-law and a fool into the bargain. But who is the greater: the fool or the woman who marries him?" She held my gaze. "You find that shocking?"

"Not if it is true."

"That is impertinent, young man."

"You would not have said it, Lady Agnes, if you did not expect such a response."

"Quite so. It proves that you are capable of honesty at least. You did not attempt to flatter me nor excuse my niece for her appalling choice of husband." She shook her head. "One supposes they are ideally matched. Her mother, my sister, Lady Selina Horsely, in whose honour we are forced to endure this yearly charade, did not bless her daughter with wisdom, I fear. In her youth, my sister loved to dance above all else. A more empty-headed girl you could not wish to meet. It pained her that her birthday fell out of the Season, which is why we are here, in the depths of winter, providing entertainment for those without the sense or means to escape to the country. Walton may believe he rules, but the charge of guardian under this roof falls to me. It is a role I have been accustomed to assuming for many a year and one which I shall surrender to death alone."

Her faded blue eyes searched mine for an answer. "I tell you this so that you may understand my interest, Mr Holmes, and the reason for my question. I notice that you have yet to reply."

"It may be, Lady Agnes, that I intend to follow in my cousin's footsteps."

"Miles is a dear boy and somewhat transparent in his motives. His reputation is well known and the woman who would associate with such a man does so in full knowledge of his intent. He does not constitute a threat. It is the unknown which gives us cause for concern." Her smile faded. "I have been watching you, Mr Holmes. Your conduct has been most curious. How do you account for it?"

"My conduct? I was not aware—"

"Then let me enlighten you. You have not asked for an introduction to any lady. You fought to escape the attentions of the redoubtable Madame de Mont St Jean, but then something made you change your mind and you pressed your case most vehemently. You are not a fortune-hunter; certainly there is something you seek, but it is not money."

"Perhaps I am simply unfamiliar with what is expected of me."

"Certainly that much is true. Your clothes are new, made by a skilled tailor, but you wear them with all the natural elegance of a performing dog. This is not your natural environment. That scar on your hand tells another story. Those are not the hands of a gentleman, whatever your lineage."

I glanced at the fading red mark, left on my skin by the prolonged application of heated metal, and wondered what her reaction would be when I told her the real reason for my presence.

"Come now," said she. "It is better to tell the truth than to maintain a lie. If my years have taught me anything, it is that we do not have time to waste skirting issues or standing on ceremony. Deal honestly with me, sir, and you may find that you have friends here."

"And if not?"

"Then you shall be ejected from this place, and I shall see that you are never admitted into polite society again. I have a duty of care to every mother here, to ensure that their daughters are not exposed to whatever depravity you intend."

I appeared to have no choice in the matter. As disguises went, mine had been spectacularly unsuccessful. All that had been required of me was to be myself. In that, I had failed. One's own skin is sometimes the hardest of all to wear and mine the most uncomfortable of all. I had been unmasked, and by a sharp-eyed woman who now held my fate in her hands.

"I am indeed the cousin of Mr Miles Holmes, although his world is not mine, and nor would I ever wish it to be," I finally admitted. "I am here because there is someone present tonight whom I have reason to believe does not wish you or your guests well."

The lady considered my response. "That is an interesting statement, Mr Holmes. Who is this person?"

"I hesitate to mention his name, Lady Agnes."

"Because you believe I would be shocked?"

"No, because slander is still an offence in this country."

"Not if it is true." She smiled at having employed my own phrase against me. "Slander or no, you may rest assured that your secret is safe with me."

"Well, then, doubts have been raised about Signor Ricoletti."

"The palmist? Surely not. The man provides petty amusement for the young people. Small things to please small minds, you might say."

"It may be, Lady Agnes, that he is responsible for a man having his own life."

"You refer of course to the death of the Honourable Arthur Bassett. Oh, you need not look so alarmed, Mr Holmes. There is very little that escapes me. The poor boy was much disturbed the last time I saw him. He was never what one might call stable at the best of times. The news of his death came as no great surprise to me, although I suspected the cause was not the sudden onset of fever they said."

"But you do not condone the means which drove him to such desperate ends?"

"I knew a lady once," said she, gazing away into the distance, "who took such an aversion to chimneysweeps that in her haste to avoid having to cross paths with one, she fled across a busy road and was knocked down by a cab. A tragedy certainly, but that does not mean that chimneysweeps should be prevented from practising their trade because of the reaction of one woman."

"I agree. However, chimneysweeps do not profess to be able to discern a person's future from the lines of their hand."

"Nor does Ricoletti," said she archly. "His 'art' is nothing more than a parlour trick."

"Many people believe in him."

"Then they are fools. The life of man is known only to his Maker and to no human agency."

"Even a fool needs convincing, Lady Agnes. Ricoletti's accurate prediction of the death of Lady Anstead gave him the credibility he needed."

"Lady Anstead was old. The only surprise was that she had lasted so long." Her tone had had a frisson of annoyance. "However," she relented, "I do not deny there is some truth in what you say. If so, then I have been guilty of oversight. One forgets in one's twilight years what it was to be green. Foolishness comes naturally to the young."

"Inexperience is perhaps a better word," I suggested diplomatically. "This world is insular, Lady Agnes, and the people who inhabit it are vulnerable to the attentions of those who are practised in deceit."

"Naive is what you really mean. Even so, if Ricoletti has come to prey upon us, I cannot discern his motive."

"He charges for his 'services'?"

"One supposes that he does. He cannot live on air and good wishes."

"You have never met the man?"

"A passing introduction." She gestured to herself. "I have no need of his 'insight'. There is nothing he could tell me of my future that I do not already know."

So frank an acknowledgement of her condition and the fate to which she must soon succumb was humbling. "I am sorry," I said.

"Never apologise for one's good health," said she with a smile. "I have had a long and for the most part interesting life. Should I die tonight, there is nothing I would regret, save for the knowledge that a snake had been left to roam amongst the young rabbits. Mr Holmes, you have my blessing to continue with your enterprise—on the condition that you keep me informed of your findings. Despite what you have said, I fail to see what Ricoletti hopes to gain from such a charade. If he intends to pick pockets by means of chiromancy, then the fault lies with those who patronise him."

"That does not make him any less of a fraud, Lady Agnes. I have yet to find a better motive than avarice as the cause for half the sins of the world."

"And the other half?"

"Love. The loss of it, the pursuit of it, all ultimately destructive."

She laughed softly. "Only one who has never experienced it could speak so harshly."

"One does not need to put one's hand in the fire to know that it will burn."

"Such cynicism in one so young might be said to be unbecoming, Mr Holmes."

"Is it then solely the preserve of the old?"

"No, but one should retain one's innocence for as long as possible. We discover the ugliness of the world soon enough. Every day of ignorance should be treasured."

"I cannot agree."

She gazed upon me with interest. "And yet you would strive to preserve the innocence of others?"

"Rather, I should say to bring a criminal to justice."

"If criminal he is. If, as you claim, the acquisition of wealth is his sole ambition, then I fear you will do little to dissuade people from their folly. Many a parent has watched in despair whilst their child has squandered their fortune at the card tables."

"You would agree that there is a difference between choice, however unwise, and coercion."

Her eyes narrowed. "You think him guilty of… _blackmail_?"

Until the moment the thought was put into words, I had been undecided. Now it seemed to me that Ricoletti was ideally placed to assume the role of blackmailer. The threat of exposure would follow a revelation of some dark deed to come. Where honour or the securing of an advantageous match was concerned, the blackmailed party would pay any amount to buy his silence.

As loathsome as it was, this was near enough to being the perfect crime. No proof was required, the victim could not deny it and nor were they likely to risk the consequences if such alleged revelations were made public. Ricoletti's position was such that he could invent any future crime, and his word would be believed. No court would ever accept it, but the whispering would begin and the guilt of the accused party would be decided before ever having the chance to plead their innocence. Lives have been ruined on slighter evidence before.

This forced me to reconsider the death of young Bassett. Had Ricoletti demanded money from him to keep a revelation of future criminality a secret from his family and the world at large? Worse still, had Bassett been driven to suicide by an inability to raise the required sum? If so, it was murder, if not in the eyes of the law, then morally so.

"How would you prove such a charge?" Lady Agnes asked, nudging me from my thoughts.

"I would persuade one of his victims to denounce him."

"That presupposes that what you believe is true. You must then consider whether anyone would be willing to speak out against him. What have they to gain except the risk of scandal?"

"If he is denounced as a fraud, then his claims are worthless."

"In my experience, it is a rare sheep that would willingly break away from the safety of the flock to face the wolf alone." She paused to draw breath, and ease slightly the position in which she had been sitting, an effort which I saw gave her considerable pain, which she endeavoured to conceal. "I have listened to your theories, and find them deeply troubling. However, the fact remains that they are _only_ theories; you have yet to find any evidence whatsoever against the man."

"I shall, Lady Agnes, you may count on that."

"I believe you," said she. "In the meantime, may I make a suggestion?"

"By all means."

"One should always know one's enemy, Mr Holmes. You should make Ricoletti's acquaintance; perhaps even let him practise his 'art' on you? If nothing else, you will gain an insight into his methods. His motives you may then judge for yourself."

I had already given some thought to such a course of action, and decided against it on the grounds that I lacked sufficient standing to interest the man. With the backing of Lady Agnes Markham, however, I saw that my chances had infinitely improved.

"You may count on my support," said she when I put this to her. "Remember your promise to keep me informed of your progress, sir. I would wish you the best of luck, but I cannot help but hope that you are wrong."

I left Lady Agnes, a woman of the strongest of resolves in the weakest of bodies, and went in search of my quarry. Ricoletti was holding court in the tea-room, reading the palm of a wide-eyed youth, who was hanging on his every word. I edged as near as I could to the front of the crowd and listened to vague talk of good prospects, health, wealth and happiness.

This close, I was struck again between the disparity between my preconceived ideas about the man and his actual appearance. A pedestrian little fellow of about forty, his chief feature of interest was his head, best described as a perfect egg-shape, on the top of which perched a hairpiece so precariously placed that one feared the slightest draught would carry it away at any moment. The moustaches he wore were exuberant, artificially-darkened to match his hair, and stiffened with wax into elaborate curlicues, creating a somewhat dandified impression that married with his exquisite tailoring.

At little over five foot in height, he was obliged to sit on the very edge of his chair so that his feet might touch the floor. The shoes he wore were expensive and the right one very individual at that, being smaller than the other, raised in the heel and extending up beneath his trouser leg. That that same foot was set awry from the ankle at an awkward angle took no great feat of deduction to realise that he suffered from congenital clubfoot.

Ordinary was the word that came to my mind. If one stripped away the wigs, moustaches and fine clothes, he would not have looked out of place behind the cashier's window in a provincial bank. He was unthreatening, the sort of man in whose company one might feel at ease and thereby fall into complacency. But in nature as in man, so it is that the smallest, insignificant of creatures may harbour the deadliest poisons.

On this occasion, the consultation had happily with the young man pleased with what he had heard of his future. One day, according to the lines of his palm, he would marry well, have many children, rise high in his profession and be well loved without an enemy in the world. Away he went, chatting with his fellows, and Ricoletti turned his attention to his next victim. Inevitably, positioned as I was before him, I found myself under his scrutiny.

"Mi scusi," said he, eyeing me with interest, "but I don't believe we have been introduced."

His English was impeccable, although I thought I detected a slight Yorkshire accent. It occurred to me that not only was he no diviner of the future, but not of Italian birth either. I decided to put him to the test.

"Mi chiamo Sherlock Holmes," I replied, with a respectful bow.

The light of understanding came to his eyes. "I know the name, sir. Are you any relation of Mr Miles Holmes?"

"My cousin. Mi piacerebbe visitare l'Italia un giorno di questi, Signor Ricoletti."

The smile faltered. "Prego," said he, which told me all I needed to know about his familiarity with the language. "Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but non parlo bene italiano."

"I assumed from your name—"

"My father was Italian, my mother English. I grew up in the Yorkshire Dales, far from fair Roma. You are here with your cousin?"

"He was here, but I appear to have lost him."

"Quite understandable. There are many people here tonight and the floor is crowded."

"Yes, I would have been quite at a loss without the kindness of Lady Agnes."

Ricoletti licked his lips. "Lady Agnes _Markham_?"

"Indeed. Do you know the lady?"

"By reputation. We met once, briefly. Any friend of Lady Agnes I should like to count as mine. Won't you sit?"

He gestured to the chair at his side left empty by his previous client's departure.

"You interest me, Mr Holmes," said he, his small eyes wandering over my person, taking in the cut of my clothes and the glint of gold at my cuffs. "I should very much like to read your palm, if you would permit, of course."

"I fear I would be in your debt."

He waved this consideration aside. "I charge only for a full consultation. This shall be an insight, nothing more. If we find something that warrants deeper investigation, then we shall have to discuss the sordid issue of money." His mouth creased into a grimace. "It pains me to have to charge at all. This is a gift, you see, one which I would share willingly and freely, but, alas! man must live and everything is so expensive these days."

I nodded with understanding. I suspected that something of interest would indeed be found and that another consultation would be suggested. If Ricoletti really knew anything of the future, he would have foreseen that I intended to see him behind bars.

"Your hand," said he. "The one you write with, Mr Holmes."

I held out my right hand. He fitted his spectacles onto his nose and gazed for some time at my upturned palm. Then, slowly, with careful deliberation, he took each of my fingers and spread them one by one, inspecting each in turn. It was a rather disconcerting performance, not least because he had the softest hands of any man I had ever met.

"Interesting," said he, removing his spectacles. "You would be an individual worthy of greater study."

As I suspected, Ricoletti was about to broach the subject of money. I did not discourage him. "You read something in my future? Pray, tell me what you saw."

"This hand, your dominant hand, speaks of the present, the course of your life as it stands now. Events that have happened, that are currently happening, that will happen, they are all here. Your left hand speaks of your hopes and wishes, what you may become should you have the desire to change." He smiled. "That, however, incurs a fee. Let us instead concentrate on your dominant hand."

He took my hand in his and indicated the points of interest as he elaborated.

"Your parents are dead and you have removed yourself from your roots. Your Fate Line tells me this much," said he, running a finger along a crease that formed a vaguely vertical line up the centre of my palm. "Yet there is a strong familial influence on your life. A sibling perhaps, older than you by five or so years?"

"Seven," I said. "My brother."

"He has expectations, but you will pursue your own course. You are determined and resolute. When the need arises, you are formidable. It is rare that I see a line as strong as this," said he with a dry chuckle. "I should not like to be your enemy, Mr Holmes."

I said nothing, merely returning his smile.

"You have intensity of purpose and single-mindedness, which can sometimes make you appear distant and cold. Yet, see here, this, the Girdle of Venus, very clearly marked, would indicate that your emotional intelligence is first-rate. Such a feature would indicate a tendency for manipulation; you should guard against this, for I see that your intimate relationships shall be few in number, but of quality. You should watch for one in particular, a quiet individual but strong in character, upon whom you may come to rely."

"A man… or a woman?"

"It is impossible to say, except that these lines do not necessarily indicate a romantic attachment. A friend, perhaps. Yes, that seems most likely. Elsewhere, I see that your Sun Line is prominent. This speaks of fame or _scandal_," he added pointedly. "Finally, your Life Line, this beginning between forefinger and thumb and curving around this pad we call the Mount of Venus, tells me of the major events of your life, those that have been and those that will be. Your line is clear, but a little broken in places. You should take care of your health, Mr Holmes. Your constitution appears to be strong, but will suffer if weakened by malign influence."

He closed my fingers and relinquished his hold. His expression had become troubled, and his manner uneasy.

"Forgive me, Mr Holmes," said he when I questioned him, "it sometimes happens that I am thrust into the unhappy situation of being the bearer of bad news. I have seen death in your hand, sir."

"Death comes to us all," said I unconcernedly.

"This is violent death, sir. Make no mistake, I have seen a disturbance on your palm, in the form of significant marks intersecting your Life Line. These are wavy, like the ocean waves or the flow of a waterfall into a precipice. Why, Mr Holmes, it almost seems that you will die by water."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Six!**_


	7. Chapter Six

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Six****: Old Friends and New Problems**

It was a little after midnight when I left St James's Hall. Miles was still nowhere to be found, Ricoletti had moved on to other gullible young people, and Lady Agnes was indisposed, so her companion informed me. The noise, heat and crush of bodies was beginning to pall, and so it was that as other revellers were taking to the floor for yet another dance, I excused myself and effected an escape.

I was glad to be free of the place; a more dispiriting evening it had not been my misfortune to endure since those interminable and obligatory dinners at college, from which illness and indisposition had only been able to excuse me for so long. I could honestly say that I had learned nothing from the night's experiences, except perhaps to reinforce my prejudices. I had been preyed upon, exposed as a fraud in my own right, and had my future predicted by a man with a bad wig and ridiculous moustaches.

Overall, my evening had not been a profitable one.

Worse, my shortcomings had been laid bare by a woman, albeit a redoubtable one with a degree of intelligence and a faculty for observation that I should not have associated with her sex. More galling was my acknowledgement, however grudging, that she was correct. I had no evidence against Ricoletti, and still had none. I had fallen in the appalling trap of theorising before I had the facts in my hands—and this was entirely the fault of Mycroft.

'A strong influence with expectations' was how the palmist had described him. To give the man his due, he had been right about that. This I did not attribute to his having read it in my palm; I had seen the method practised before by carnival rogues, although not with so great a degree of confidence. On the balance of probability, it was likely that I should have a sibling – I noted he had not been specific as to whether a brother or sister; the lines had failed him there – and it was even odds that they would be either younger or older than myself. Ricoletti had settled for the latter and had scored a victory.

As for my death by drowning, the onlookers may have been horrified and impressed by such a pronouncement, but I was not. Had he said I would meet my end at the teeth of a tiger or some other such unlikely fate, I should have given him his due for originality. A watery grave seemed unimaginative and a somewhat pedestrian end, as well as being distinctly improbable, given that I rated myself as a decent swimmer.

On the basis of this, a further consultation had been suggested, naturally, and Ricoletti had advised that there were ways of escaping one's destiny. I would have thought avoiding bodies of water would have been the most practical, but then one does not make one's living by recommending the obvious. I had thanked him for his time and we had parted on the mutual, tacit understanding that beyond what he had already told me, I presented little in the way of further opportunities for his self-aggrandisement. If my hypothesis held true, I was a poor prospect as a future blackmail victim.

I absented myself, discouraged, into the night to find that a billowing blanket of brown fog had begun to wrap itself about the city. The choice of where to spend the night now presented me with something of a dilemma. Home to Montague Street dressed in white tie and tails and at this late hour would rouse my gorgon of a landlady from her slumbers and incur many intrusive questions into the bargain. Pall Mall, where Mycroft had recently taken rooms, was only a short walk away, but ours had never been the sort of family that either welcomed or encouraged impromptu visits. Added to which, I had a reluctance to enter into any intercourse with my brother, especially one where I would have to throw myself upon his mercy and plead a bed for the night. He could keep his expectations; I would rather sleep on a bench than have to abase myself.

Failing that, I could return to Miles's rooms in Mayfair. If he was home and entertaining or doing whatever it was that Miles did with his time, I would have to find alternative arrangements. Before that, however, I would have to get there.

With no cab in sight, a stiffish walk lay ahead, and I was not clad in suitable clothes for the occasion. Dressed like an escapee from the opera, if I made it to his door without being robbed, I should count myself fortunate indeed. With this in mind, I turned my collar up against the cold and started in the direction of Mayfair.

The fog was gathering in force, the drifting vapours leaving only general impressions of the shapes and obstructions that lay ahead. The yellow stain of the gaslight threw a half-hearted glow on a scattering of desperate souls shivering in doorways. Running the gauntlet of their outstretched hands and improper suggestions down the length of Piccadilly requires a steady pace and a firm, unwavering gaze, which works tolerably well until one finds the pavement ahead blocked by a number of indistinct figures, as I now did.

I slowed, peering through the fog to see what trouble lay ahead. I considered crossing the road, for tight collars and silk waistcoats are not suitable wear in which to engage in street brawls, when an elderly woman, worse for wear and with a half-filled bottle clasped loosely in one hand, took my hesitation for interest and detached herself from the darkness to saunter over.

"You lookin' for someone, my lovely?" she asked, all hope and beer fumes.

"No," I replied. "What happened here?"

I gestured to the peppering of people gathered outside the gates to Burlington House, home of the Royal Academy of Arts.

"S'only the coppers," she slurred. "'Ere, don't you worry about them, my lovely, they got other things on their mind tonight. I bet you have too."

This remark, along with the knowing wink that followed it, I ignored. "Do you know why they're here?"

"Do they need an excuse?" Her tone was as indignant as the alcohol would allow. "Why you so interested in them anyhow? Like a man in uniform, do you?"

I left her to her bottle and joined the small crowd, noting the degree of interest in the craning necks and general pushing and shoving that inevitably follows when a crime has been committed and information is scarce. Several constables were doing their best to keep the gathering at bay, alternating between warning to keep back and stamping and blowing into their hands to keep warm. Beyond the gates, Burlington House had lights in every window, throwing a blurred glow onto a collection of police wagons in the courtyard. Something of import had occurred, and interest was roused.

"What happened?" I asked the nearest constable.

He was about to adopt his usual practice of telling me what to do with my query in no uncertain terms when he noticed my attire and reconsidered.

"A theft, sir. Nothing to worry about."

"Go on," said a loud-mouthed fellow at my elbow. "All this palaver over a burglary? You've got half the Met in there! Someone's been done in at the very least."

"Now, watch it," said the constable, waving his truncheon in the man's general direction. "I've had just about enough of you. Clear off before I change my mind and have you all arrested!"

"Oh, yeah?" said his antagonist, squaring up to him with drink-fuelled arrogance. "You and him against us lot? Fancy your chances, do you?"

The scene was rapidly turning ugly. Hot words were exchanged, a whistle blew and the night air was filled with foul and colourful oaths. I was attempting to extract myself from the melee when a familiar, if somewhat tired voice made me hesitate. I turned to see that a dark-eyed, wiry little man had appeared on the other side of the gates, heavily muffled against the cold and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his top coat.

"Constable Perkins, what's going on here?" said he. "You're making enough noise to waken the dead."

"Ah, so someone has copped it," said the man who had caused the earlier disturbance. "I knew it."

"It's these troublemakers, Inspector," said the unhappy Perkins. "They won't go home."

"Won't go home?" the inspector repeated tolerantly. "Well, constable, perhaps they don't have homes to go to. Tell you what, why don't you invite them down to the local police station and offer them a bed for the night in one of the cells?"

"How can we go home," said the man, "when there's a lunatic on the loose ready to murder us all in our beds?"

"There's been no murder, sir," said the inspector, raising his voice so all could hear. "There has, however, been a theft. A very valuable artefact has been stolen from this building. Now I come to think about it, these people might have seen something. Constable, take their names. We can question them later."

Never have I seen a crowd disperse so quickly. They melted away into the fog and darkness until I was left alone.

"You should be getting to your home too, sir," said the inspector dully. "There are thieves around this time of night."

Evidently, he had not recognised me, which was not surprising as I had had the same trouble myself earlier in the evening.

"It's a long way to Montague Street, Inspector Lestrade."

He had turned to leave, but now looked back. "Well, I never! If it isn't Mr Holmes." He opened the gate and stepped forward, shaking my hand with genuine enthusiasm at renewing our acquaintance. "Last time I saw you, you were laid up in hospital. Now look at you, done up the nines. Someone died?"

"No, I was attending a ball. Under protest, I might add."

"A ball, eh?" He seemed impressed and just a little intimidated. "From servant to toff in a few weeks. Not bad work if you can get it. Are you moving in higher circles now, Mr Holmes?"

"Temporarily."

"I see. Only, I wondered if that last business had put you off the idea of being a detective."

"_Consulting_ detective," I reminded him. With hindsight, the emphasis seemed rather pointless, for as usual, I was obliged to take a more practical approach to the case. Indignities there were, but at least it did not involve polishing floor or mucking out stables. "Nor am I deterred. If that is the worst that ever happens to me, I shall count myself fortunate."

"Some might say being stabbed was bad enough," said he. "How's the – er – injury?"

"Healed. How's the family?"

"All well, thank you for asking. We've still got a full house, what with the missus not quite back on her feet and her mother looking after the children. Now her husband and his evil-smelling ferret have moved in too, on account of her not being able to trust him on his own. Got this idea in his head that he's a bit handy. If she doesn't watch him, he'll have the house in pieces. She was only gone a few days and he'd already knocked a hole in the wall. Said he was going to install another staircase—in their kitchen, if you please!" Lestrade pulled an unhappy face. "Makes me wonder what damage I'm going to find when I get home. Still, as long as the wife and her mother keep their eye on him, the more, the merrier, I say. You've a brother as I recall. Well, is he?"

I told him he was, all the while wincing inwardly and wishing Mycroft had as much concern for his fellow human beings as had the inspector. At our last meeting, he had described Lestrade as a 'scapegoat', and had callously dismissed the ruin of his career, marriage and the threat of demotion to Rutland as a necessary evil in pursuit of the greater good. Not doubt he had considered it expedient; I hoped I would never be quite that heartless.

"What's happened here, Lestrade?" I asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Oh, nothing that would interest you, I'm sure. There's an exhibition going on in the galleries at the moment: jewels of the Renaissance or some such thing. The thieves broke in this evening and helped themselves."

I had a vague recollection of having read about the exhibits. "Don't they have an opal tiara said to have belonged to Anne of Bohemia?"

Lestrade nodded. "And a hundred weight of other gems besides. The most valuable piece is the Mary Queen of Scots Diadem, fairly brimming with gold, pearls, diamonds and rubies. Priceless, so I'm told."

"They say she was wearing it when she had her head chopped off, sir," spoke up Constable Perkins. "They say when her blood flowed over it, some of the diamonds turned red."

"I don't think that's likely, do you, constable?" said Lestrade, pursing his lips.

"Well, I read it in a journal, Inspector."

"And they probably made it up, Perkins. Look, son, if you want to be taken seriously in the force, I wouldn't go around spouting nonsense like that." He sniffed disdainfully and the constable retreated back to his post. "So, Mr Holmes, there it is. The Diadem has gone, the opal tiara's gone, and so has…" He hesitated and fidgeted with his handkerchief. "An item of a personal nature belonging to Bluff King Hal."

"Oh, what sort of item?" I asked with interest.

A flush of colour rose up from Lestrade's collar to his cheeks. "An article from his suit of armour. It's not a valuable piece and a mighty queer thing to steal when there's other things about, if you ask me, but it's gone all the same."

"And it was?"

Lestrade gestured for me to draw close and whispered in my ear. I tried not to smile at his embarrassment.

"Your thief certainly has a sense of humour," said I. "The technical term for it I believe is a _'brayette'_. It may spare your blushes when drawing up your report."

"Is that one 't' or two?" he asked, as he jotted it down in his notebook. "Well, thank you for that, Mr Holmes. I'm sure that'll come in useful in my investigation."

"A description might assist you more. What did it look like?"

He consulted his notes. "According to the curator, it was gilded originally, although now much rubbed, and it had a zigzag and scroll decoration, to match the rest of the armour. And it was about, oh, I should say…"

He fell to mumbling so that I missed his final words.

"_I said_, about eight inches in length," he repeated louder, his face turning a deeper shade of crimson.

"They do say such things were largely symbolic," spoke up the ever-helpful Perkins. "Their development had more to do with changing fashions in civilian dress than for a concern for protection. And being the king's one, it had be—"

"Yes, thank you, Perkins," Lestrade snapped, cutting him short. "I suppose you read that in your 'journal' too?"

"No, Inspector, the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_. My mother had the full set."

"A pity she didn't spend her money on something more worthwhile, like brains for you."

"This item," I said, "I take it that it was not on general display?"

"No, Mr Holmes, it was in a glass case set alongside the armour and covered with a velvet cloth." He cleared his throat. "Queer business as I say. Still, it's my problem now. I'll not be keeping you out on a cold night like this."

I gathered this was his roundabout way of asking for assistance. "I'm in no particular hurry to get home," I said. "There are features of this case which interest me. I don't suppose you could…"

"Get you in and let you take a look?" He brightened. "I'm sure I could manage it, seeing as how you've been of help with our inquiries in the past. Come this way."

At his post by the gate, Perkins raised his eyebrows.

"It's all right, Constable," said Lestrade.

"I had my orders that I wasn't to admit any outsiders."

"Mr Holmes isn't an outsider. He's with me."

"If you so say, Inspector. If he asks, what should I tell—?"

"You keep your mouth and leave him to me, Constable. He doesn't need to know about this. What the eye doesn't see, the hand gets away with, so to speak. Follow me, Mr Holmes."

As we passed beneath the entrance arch, I caught Lestrade by the sleeve and brought him to a halt. "Who is this person, Inspector?"

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "It's complicated."

"No, it isn't. Tell me."

"The fact is, Mr Holmes, I'm not the only detective on this case. It's not your common or garden jewel robbery, you see. It's bound to attract a lot of attention in the press and there's some very influential people making noises about the business. They want a quick and clean result. What they don't want is another fiasco like that 'Stolen Duchess' affair."

I knew the case; indeed, there would have been few who did not, so infamous had the theft become. Two years previously, in the May of 1876, Gainsborough's portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire had been stolen from a Bond Street gallery. The picture had never been recovered nor had the police ever been able to discover the identity of the thieves [1].

"You think the same people are responsible?"

Lestrade shrugged. "At this point, we've very little to go on to know for sure. Which is why I'd value your opinion."

"And this other detective?"

"Apple of the Chief Super's eye," he grunted.

A sinking feeling started in my stomach and wormed its way up to my chest. Lestrade had only ever applied that epithet to one of his fellow detectives, and we had met before. The experience had not been a felicitous one for either of us.

"Oh, no," I said, groaning. "Not Gregson."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Seven!**_

* * *

[1] In fact, the picture was not recovered until 1901 by Pinkerton detectives in Chicago.


	8. Chapter Seven

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Seven: A Serious Failing**

"Isn't it a little unusual," I questioned, "to have two detectives on the same case?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Depends on the case, Mr Holmes. With this one, the Commissioner is being leant on from a great height, what with the Academy's reputation being called into question. They only got half of this stuff on loan by promising that they would do their utmost to protect the exhibits."

"Which took the form of hiring more staff?"

"Yes, old ex-coppers mostly. Not that they did much good. They might as well not have been here for all the good they did. Still," he said, in that tone of respectful loyalty I had heard him employ before when speaking of other members of his profession, "I'm sure they did their best."

"Do you know them, by sight I mean?"

He mulled over this. "Not personally."

"Is there anyone who could identify them?"

"I'm sure someone can, yes. In the meantime, you'll be wanting to speak to them?"

I was familiar enough with Lestrade's methods to know that I was being gently probed as to whether his reluctant admission about Gregson's involvement in the case had deterred me. I would say that I was not altogether overjoyed about locking horns with the flaxen-haired Inspector again. We had not seen eye-to-eye when we had last met.

He had expressed his disapproval of what he called my amateur dabbling, but not to the extent that he was not prepared to make use of a valuable asset in the furtherance of his career. For my part, I had disliked being blackmailed by the threat of spurious charges into proving assistance so that he could lord it over his rival.

Lestrade was not beyond a little persuasion of his own, except it was never so blatant as to cause offence. Versed in the subtler arts of getting what he wanted by stealth, I was invariably left with the impression that some domestic disaster would be the result of my failing to help him with his investigations, a prospect which had far more resonance than any concern for Gregson's lofty ambitions. The best stories always have more than a grain of truth at their hearts, and I noticed that Lestrade's shoes bore more than a day's accumulation of dust and several fresh teeth marks, a parting gift from his father-in-law's resident ferret.

My evening had left me tired and disheartened, and the prospect of having to face Gregson again did not appeal. My instinct was to go home; my professional interest, however, demanded more. Under the twin pressures of my own fatal curiosity and Lestrade's gnawed shoes, I relented. At this, the Inspector attempted to bring his grin of satisfaction under control, and then led the way to the staff common room, a rather grand name for what proved to be an unprepossessing chamber at the rear of the building with damp patches on the ceiling and peeling paintwork.

Four elderly bewhiskered men were sat drinking tea on dilapidated armchairs from which the stuffing protruded like the bloated guts of a dead sheep. The room smelled strongly of cheap tobacco and even cheaper rum, laced with an unpleasant odour of drains that I soon discovered emanated from the chairs. The four rose when we entered, and after cursory introductions, tea was offered and we were invited to sit.

Having seen the state of the chairs, I decided I would be safer on my own two feet. I wandered about, felt something crunch beneath my shoe, and decided that I would to better to take up position by the door where the air was slightly less intoxicating.

"For the life of me, I don't know how it happened," began a grizzled, stooped man introduced to me as Gladstone. "They must have been in and out like lightning. We take it in turns to do the rounds of the galleries every fifteen minutes, you see, two of us going and two staying put here, just like Mr Rodney-Ware told us."

"Rodney-Ware?" I asked Lestrade.

"Secretary of the RA. It was his job to see to the security arrangements."

"Well, sir, at quarter to eleven, me and Jones here"—he gestured to a fellow grey-beard seated to his left—"did our rounds as usual, and all seemed quiet as the grave. All the doors were locked just as we'd left them, but when we took a look in the main gallery and we saw that the crown was gone, well, we knew someone had been there all right."

"That narrows the time of the theft down to a fifteen minute slot," Lestrade informed me.

I gave him a weary glance. "Having made the discovery, you then informed the police?"

"No, sir," said Jones. "We informed Mr Rodney-Ware. It was him who told the police."

"Rodney-Ware was still in the building? At such a late hour?"

"Very hard-working man is Mr Rodney-Ware," said Gladstone. "He often works late."

"I presume he was working his office. Did he stay there all night, to the best of your knowledge?"

The four exchanged glances and shrugged. "We never see hide nor hair of him about the galleries," said another called Butt, "excepting when he goes home. Usually he looks in then, just to check all's well."

"Usually, but not always?"

"Mostly," said Gladstone with a chuckle. "He likes to keep us on our toes, but we know when he's due. Never caught us slacking in our duties yet, has he, lads?"

And he was unlikely to do so, up against old hands such as these.

"What time does he _usually_ leave?" I inquired.

"Midnight, if he's going home. Ten if he's not."

"What d'you mean 'if he's not'?" Lestrade demanded.

"Got a woman on the side," Butt said, grinning into his tea cup. "No doubt he tells his missus he's working late."

"How do you know this?" I asked.

"Dunno about you, governor," said Gladstone, sharing a knowing laugh with the others, "but I never put on a fresh collar just to meet the wife. We always know when he's got an 'appointment', because the laundry brings his clean shirts to the back door here."

"You should have mentioned this earlier," said Lestrade with some asperity. "It may be pertinent to our inquiry."

Gladstone shook his head. "He ain't stolen those baubles, Inspector. I've see enough in my time to know that a man who frets that much doesn't have the bottle to steal from his own backyard and then brazen it out. What you're looking for, if you don't mind me saying, is a professional gang. In and out, and gone in a flash. You'll never find them."

"Think yourselves lucky that you didn't run into them," said Lestrade, trying valiantly to rise up to his full height to assert his authority. "Men like that don't spare a thought about adding murder to robbery. Well, is that all, Mr Holmes?"

I nodded. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. By the way, who won the game?"

"Oh," said Butt, "it was—"

He stopped and four turned guilty faces in our direction.

"What's this?" Lestrade cried.

"A game of chance to while away the time," I explained. "The nights can drag so when all one has to do is to keep guard over a few dusty artefacts. Now, gentleman, at what time was the last inspection before the theft was discovered?"

"Quarter past nine," muttered Gladstone.

"One and a half hours, then, during which the theft took place. My congratulations to the victor, gentlemen, for it may be that you shall have to rely upon your winnings for some time following your dismissal for this night's debacle. Come, Inspector, we have learned all we can here."

Lestrade trailed behind me and we paused in the corridor.

"How did you know about the gambling?" he asked.

"When I tread on one cockleshell, I am willing to believe it may have been someone's lucky charm. When I see no less than four, however, my thoughts turn to their usage as gaming markers. They had tried to conceal their activities, but not well enough. Also, the atmosphere in that room was too thick to have accumulated had they been keeping to their duties as they claimed."

"Disgraceful," he muttered with some vehemence. "They should have known better, having been on the Force."

"If everyone did their job to the best of their abilities, you and I should find ourselves unemployed," I remarked. "Mr Rodney-Ware must bear some blame in this too. How much could elderly and infirm men like Gladstone and the others expect to command for their night's work?"

"Not much, granted." Lestrade held my gaze for a minute before shaking his head. "Doesn't excuse what they did. They betrayed the trust placed in them. That reflects on all of us, especially in these trying times. The papers will have a field day if they get wind of this."

"I'm sure Rodney-Ware could be persuaded to be reasonable about it. He has his position to consider as well."

"You mean as regards this lady friend of his?"

"And the fact he failed in his promise to the lenders of the exhibits to provide adequate protection. It often follows, Lestrade, that you invariably get what you pay for."

"That's true enough," said he with a grunt of amusement. "What about this Rodney-Ware? Do you think he had any hand in the theft? Maintaining this other woman was bound to be expensive. And he did hire Gladstone and the other three. We've only their word for it that he didn't know what they were up to. For all they knew, he could have hopped downstairs and let the thieves in himself."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"Nor the last. There was that case in Urbino in the year '45, where the director of the museum was in league with the gang that stole a Raphael painting. He only went to the police and owned up to it when the others wouldn't give him his share."

I stared at him with some surprise. "Lestrade, have you been reading up on past cases?"

He held up his chin. "I might have perused a few old copies of the _Illustrated Police News_. Just out of interest, you understand."

I could have asked whether it had anything to do with my once mentioning that there was no crime that had not been done before. I had that opportunity which presents itself so rarely that it is always to be valued, of possessing the power to humiliate and mortify; that I chose not to do so gave me pause. Despising all forms of pretentiousness as I do, I should have taken the inspector down a peg or two without a second thought.

It was those 'second thoughts' that now concerned me.

Not that I placed any faith in what Ricoletti had told me, but there had been mention of 'a quiet individual but strong in character, upon whom you may come to rely'. The word 'friend' had also been bandied about as though one might consider it a virtue. It was not a designation I should have applied to Lestrade, although clearly our recent experiences might have suggested that he qualified for the role. Few enemies would happily pull a knife from one's chest—pushing it in deeper would be more likely—nor lend to impecunious young men sums of money which they themselves could ill afford.

Unconsciously, so it seemed, I had been cultivating a friendship. That would never do, especially when it appeared to be biasing my judgement. The thought of coming to rely on anyone, let alone Lestrade, was equally unpalatable. I let it pass for the time being, for the sake of the case, but it was evident to me that I would have to keep closer guard on how deeply I encouraged our professional relationship in the future.

"Is everything all right, Mr Holmes?"

Lestrade's question told that something of my thoughts must have showed on my face, again, a most uncharacteristic failing that I had always endeavoured to avoid.

"I was thinking," I said, "that an inspection of the scene of the crime would be in order."

"Certainly." He regarded me quizzically. "You're sure you're not ill? You've gone a queer colour. If you're not feeling quite the ticket—"

"Everything is quite in order," I interrupted, cutting short his concerns for my health. Ungracious of me perhaps, but it really had no bearing on the case. "Now, if you don't mind, the gallery?"

"This way," he said, leading. "We should be all right. Rodney-Ware was giving Gregson a tour of the premises. But if we do happen to bump into him—"

"I am merely an observer, Inspector."

"Quite so." He gave me an uncertain look. "Not that I need any help on this one, for it's a straight-forward enough case. Professional thieves, no doubt about it, but I don't see no harm in having a fresh pair of eyes take a look over the scene. Although if you do chance to find something…"

His voice had risen, making a question out of an otherwise unassuming remark.

"You'll be the first to know."

If this seemed to satisfy him, it did less for me. Once the seed is planted, all it requires is the water of doubt and the warmth of resentment to give it bloom. I reminded myself that I had no real obligation to Lestrade. We had no agreement, except perhaps an unspoken understanding based on our former acquaintance. It really made no odds whether he or Gregson took credit for the solution of the case; either way it would have little benefit for me. I was fast becoming a pawn in their petty war, and it rankled more than I cared to admit.

I trailed behind him as we wended our way through increasingly opulent rooms. Bare walls gave way to endless framed canvases across whose painted surfaces cavorted nymphs and satyrs, prophets and kings frozen in the making of grand gestures and seascapes with their surf-crowned waves. At the double doors leading into the main galleries, I paused briefly, conducted as thorough an inspection of the lock as I could manage without the aid of lens, and caught up with Lestrade in the second of the rooms beyond the domed lobby.

Two constables had been left on guard, a case of bolting the door after the horse had fled if ever there was one. To one side of the entrance stood the suit of armour of King Henry; the rest of the room was taken up by a glittering array of gems in elaborate settings. Jewels once bestowed on royal consorts, rings that had adorned the hands of kings, pearls for the hair of a queen, golden rattles for golden princes—here was wealth beyond estimate, temptation beyond imagination.

For the majority who pass through these galleries, we look, we admire, we regret, we move on. In one mind, however, an opportunity had been seen and a plan formed. Now two cases, side by side, were empty, their precious contents plundered.

"The diadem was here," said Lestrade, indicating the larger of the glass boxes; "the opal tiara was in this other one."

I stooped over to read the labels and the names of the people who had lent their treasures. The name of the first answered my question about why such importance was attached to solving the case and retrieving the stolen items. The second name, the owner of the opal tiara, a Mrs Farintosh, I did not recognise, although no doubt she was as desirous of the safe return of her possessions as the more illustrious personage.

An examination revealed that the glass had been extracted with a diamond-tipped cutter. It was neat work, done quickly, and with the incised pane left on top of the case. With such a skilled practitioner, it would have taken a matter of minutes to complete both thefts.

"If this was mine," mused Lestrade, staring down at a gold badge of office, a tiny miracle of the enameller's art, "I'd keep it in the bank. Or sell it and put the money in my mattress where I knew it would be safe. Putting your valuables on public display is asking for trouble!"

"What if your mattress was stolen?" I said, giving him half my attention.

"Not much chance of that with the mother-in-law in residence," he replied in humorous vein. "She'd make the villains run a mile. She's too free with that rolling pin, if you ask me."

"Then perhaps you should offer her services to Mr Rodney-Ware and solve both your problem," I suggested, as I rose to my feet. "What of this other item, the _brayette_?"

The velvet-covered case was set discreetly in the corner beside the king's armour with a label warning that the contents were for academic interest only, and unsuitable viewing for women, children and gentleman of a weak constitution. I pulled back the plum-coloured cloth to find that the top pane of glass had been smashed inwards, causing the shards to be retained within the case.

"Interesting," I said. "Great care was taken with the other items, but this shows almost blatant disregard for caution."

"Why take it, that's what gets me," said Lestrade.

"Perhaps that is tied up in the manner of the theft."

"Crude, you mean?"

"No, more like an act of braggadocio."

"That's easy for you to say," he muttered, "but I can hardly take that back to the Commissioner. If we follow that theory, then it's liable to have ended up in the Thames."

"Possibly it has."

Lestrade gave a troubled sigh. "No one ever said being a detective was easy."

"Out of your depth already, Mr Lestrade?"

The voice, loud, clear, triumphant, rang out in lofty spaces of the gallery. I knew the identity of the newcomer from that voice alone, as did Lestrade. Thus it was that we turned as one to face the grinning, smug countenance of Inspector Tobias Gregson.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Eight!**_


	9. Chapter Eight

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Eight: Theories, Facts & Acrobats**

Time is a vile foe. It wages war on youth, cuts down the good and ruins the brave. Worse of all, it steals and mutates one's memories. We are none of us immune to its influence. In my case, it had caused me to forget just how irritatingly self-satisfied Gregson could be. When I did think back to our last encounter, I had imagined my memory to be at fault, that no one could be such a gloating grotesque in life without others realising it. Meeting him again, however, convinced me otherwise.

If he was the apple of the Chief Superintendant's eye, as Lestrade was fond of telling me, then I had to believe that their superior officer was a man possessed of an extraordinarily tolerant nature capable of overlooking such defects in character where a detective showed aptitude. Either that or he surpassed Gregson in the art of conceit; after all, a fool may always find a greater fool to admire him. Whatever the truth, this fanning of the man's pomposity did not make life any easier for those obliged to work with him.

At his back was his permanent shadow, Constable Fowler, a solid, well-built man with a fine line in sardonic humour. The fact it was wasted on Gregson was all to the good, for his subordinate seemed to derive great pleasure in mocking him whenever he got the opportunity and thus providing endless amusement for anyone in the immediate vicinity.

With this unhappy duo was the even unhappier Mr Rodney-Ware, Secretary of the Academy, a thin marionette of man seemingly held together by little more than skin and sinew. Every now and then he was twitched into action by some unkindly hand that set him into a frenzy of nervous tics and jerks when a response was demanded from him. He scowled at us, he scowled at Gregson, he scowled at the world in general—inwardly perhaps he was even scowling at himself—and yet I could count two people who thought this ill-tempered man worthy of affection.

I toyed briefly with the idea of his having an engaging character, a thought swiftly dismissed when I saw that the lines of his frown were engraved too deeply into his brow to be anything other than permanent. What charms this aged, scowling Casanova possessed quite eluded me, but then I shall ever maintain that the whims and fancies of women are a mystery even I cannot unravel.

His concerns were not mine, however, for I had the more pressing problem of the imposing and advancing form of Inspector Gregson. He was not pleased to see either of us, least of all me, a fact he endeavoured to hide behind the predatory grin of cat who finds the door of the canary's cage left ajar and his mistress from the room.

"Well, well," said he, glowering at us. I noticed he did not offer his hand. "If it isn't Mr Sherlock Holmes. When I saw you last, you were waiting table and calling yourself Henry." He surveyed my attire with a critical eye. "Gone up in the world, have we, or you playing at being a toff now?"

Rodney-Ware fairly spluttered with indignation. "A _servant_?" he screeched. "Here, in the Royal Academy? What is this, Inspector? Is the general public to be allowed to gawp at our misfortune as if we were nothing more than a carnival sideshow?"

"Mr Holmes is harmless enough," said Gregson. "He isn't what he appears to be."

"We none of us are," I remarked.

"Then what, sir, are you?" demanded Rodney-Ware.

Gregson answered before I had the chance to reply. "He's an amateur in the field of crime, and I'll not deny that he's had a few good ideas in the past. Most of it by luck more than judgement, I dare say."

"An amateur?" said Rodney-Ware. "I was assured that this would be dealt with by the finest Scotland Yard has to offer! Instead I find you consult with… with…"

"Dabblers," said Gregson. "Inspector Lestrade here does, not I. Still dabbling, are you, sir?"

"When I can, Inspector."

"Well, not tonight and not here you aren't. Constable, see this _gentleman_ off the premises."

"Just a minute, he's here on my say-so, Gregson," said Lestrade.

"I'd guessed that much already." He lifted his chin and sniffed the air suspiciously. "What's that smell? Are you wearing cheap perfume, Lestrade? Or is it that ferret of yours again?"

One glance at Lestrade's face made any indifference I thought I could feign to this petty war promptly evaporate. The accusation was unwarranted, especially as I was the culprit. My nose had become accustomed to the distinctive scent of the Vetiver Miles had liberally sprinkled about my person, so that I was no longer aware of its lingering odour. I tugged my coat about me and tried to contain the incriminating miasma of cedar and sandalwood to spare us both further embarrassments.

"I don't know why you're still here," Gregson went on, eyeing his rival with ill-disguised contempt. "I've no time for amateurs and dabblers. You may decide which category fits you best."

To give him his credit, Lestrade was not easily intimidated. He pulled himself up to his not entirely impressive full height and endeavoured to meet these criticisms on an equal footing. "I'm assigned to this case too, Gregson," said he, "in case you've forgotten."

"As a matter of fact, I had. That's your problem. You're instantly forgettable, although you've a rare talent for getting under people's feet, I'll give you that."

Lestrade had flushed a colour usually associated with the last stages of choking. It was nigh time that I stepped into the fray.

"You've solved the case then, Inspector Gregson?" I asked.

"Of course," said he, witheringly. "While you've been looking down, I've been looking up."

He gestured to the skylight set some forty feet above the floor.

"Looking for divine inspiration, no doubt," Lestrade muttered, and then louder added: "And what is that supposed to tell us?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Gregson gave us a pitying look. "Acrobats."

We both stared at him.

"Acrobats?" said Lestrade, aghast.

"_Thieving_ acrobats," Gregson corrected him. "Came down through the skylight, took the gems and back the way they came." He tapped the side of his nose with a corpulent forefinger. "I'm not so slow myself when it comes to details. The door was locked, so they didn't come in that way and there were no footprints. So it's obvious. They lowered one another down, took the jewels and left the way they came. Isn't that right, Constable?"

Fowler's expression, a lesson for any aspiring actor in the art of capturing extreme indifference, never faltered. "If you say so, Inspector."

"I do say so, Fowler," said he, blissfully ignorant of the marked sarcasm in his subordinate's tone. "And it's what'll be going in my report. Come the morning, I'll be rounding up every juggler, tumbler and high-wire prancer in a twenty mile radius of London. I'll soon get to the bottom of this theft."

"Then you'll be wasting your time," I said. Despite my better judgement, there was only so much of this nonsense I could tolerate before my insulted intelligence rebelled.

Gregson's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Furthermore, if you value your reputation and that of your fellow detectives at Scotland Yard, I would be loath to mention this 'theory' of yours to the press. They have long memories where mistakes are concerned."

"There's no mistake here, I'm sure of that. My theory fits the facts exactly."

"There is a difference, Gregson, between what is improbable and what is blatantly implausible."

"Then what, Mr Holmes, is your idea?"

It was Rodney-Ware who had posed the question, accompanied as it was with a curious bird-like twitch of his head. He had been listening to our exchange, first with dismay at Gregson's talk of criminally-minded street entertainers, and then with greater interest when I had ventured my opinion. Despite his aversion to 'dabblers', clearly he was not adverse to good common sense, whatever the source.

There was only so much I was willing to admit before Gregson, but something was needed after such a statement on my part. Before that, however, there was a small point which required clarification.

"May I ask, sir, when this floor was last cleaned?" I said, dropping to my hands and knees and bringing my eyes level with the polished wooden boards. A good quality wax had been recently applied and I thought I detected the familiar scent of beeswax as used in 'Mr Heartly's Patent Compound of Floor Wax', a product it had been my misfortune to encounter in copious quantities in the last of my cases.

"The floor is cleaned daily after the visitors have left."

"A fact that might have aided us had there not been so much subsequent traffic since the discovery of the theft." I rose and brushed the slight peppering of dust from my hands. "What I can say is that they never came in through the skylight."

"How, sir?"

"If you look, you may notice that there is a rim of dirt about the seal, Mr Rodney-Ware. I would have expected some of it to break away if the window had been opened. As you can see for yourself, the floor is quite devoid of such debris. Furthermore, there is a cobweb up there that has clearly not been disturbed for some time."

"Good heavens!" said he, placing a neat pair of spectacles on his nose. "I shall have to take the cleaners to task about this!"

"Thus, we may say with some certainty that unless our thieves were ghosts—which is unlikely—or capable of levitation, again equally so, then certainly they walked across this floor. Any marks they might have left have since been obliterated by the arrival of the night watchmen, yourself, Mr Rodney-Ware, and the police."

"You say they weren't ghosts, Mr Holmes," said Gregson, "but that door was locked. Do you expect us to believe that they slipped in through the gap underneath? Why, that's not large enough for a mouse to pass through."

"I should hope not," said Rodney-Ware indignantly.

"No, Inspector. They opened the door and then relocked it again when they left."

"Why on earth would they do that?"

"Perhaps to keep the jewels safe from other burglars?" I smiled at his mystification. "If you inspect the locks, you'll find indications that a pick was used, skilfully I might add, for the marks are few and minute."

"Then you believe that we are dealing with a professional gang of thieves," said Rodney-Ware. His left eye started a series of violent winks that caused the side of his face to join in this impromptu spasm. "Good heavens! What am I to tell the owners? I gave them my word of honour that their jewels would be safe."

"Tell them the truth," I said. "You were insured?"

He waved this consideration aside. "That is not the point. The money means nothing compared to the national importance of these items. Mrs Farintosh in particular was only persuaded to lend her opal tiara on condition that it would be returned to her in the same state as it was lent. Now, if we are to believe your theory, Mr Holmes, am I to tell the dear lady that her jewels are now in the hands of villains, never to be seen again?"

"She may well see them again," said Lestrade, "but not necessarily as she remembers them. It's been my experience that these gangs will dismantle a well-known piece like that and sell the parts separately."

"Or find a private buyer who is not too fussy about provenance," I mused. "With a famous item like the Diadem, I would suggest that that is its ultimate fate."

"And our…" Rodney-Ware glanced uneasily in the direction of the broken glass case. "Other item?"

"You mean the _brayette_, sir?" Lestrade said with some authority.

Rodney-Ware blinked at this unexpected display of knowledge. "I wouldn't have thought that you… that is to say, I wouldn't have expected Scotland Yard to have an appreciation for such objects."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the sort of things we know, sir. A breadth of knowledge is important in this job, as is imagination, even if some of us are over-eager in that department," said he, glancing at Gregson, who appeared to have lost interest in the proceedings. "There is one thing you can perhaps explain. This _brayette_, was it valuable, would you say? I can't make head nor tail of why anyone would _want_ to steal it."

Rodney-Ware cleared his throat somewhat nervously. "I had wondered that myself. My first thought was anarchists, that it might have had significance as an act of rebellion against the monarchy. Or it might have been moralists."

"Novelists?" said Gregson, catching the end of what the Secretary was saying. "Oh, it wouldn't put it past them, sir. Rowdy bunch, aren't they, Fowler?"

"Always causing trouble," the constable agreed. "Whenever there's a problem, we usually find a man with a book behind it somewhere."

"No, no, _moralists_," Rodney-Ware repeated. "We have had complaints, you know."

"A strange sort of moralist who would remove such an article from public view and yet steal jewellery at the same time," I ventured.

"Well, in that case…" The man wiped his brow and his succession of twitches and jerks became all the more agitated. "There is a legend attached to this particular item that should a woman, er, I should say a _married_ woman, naturally, wish to, oh, overcome, er, what you might describe as a state of childlessness, that she should stick a pin in this, uh, _item_ of gentleman's apparel, and her wish would be granted in due course." He blinked nervously at us. "Well, that's the legend. Very popular in the 17th century, so I'm told."

"You believe a woman stole this artefact?" I asked.

"A poor deluded creature," said Rodney-Ware. "Yes, it is possible."

"Nonsense!" scoffed Gregson.

I nodded. "Yes, I agree."

He brightened. "Oh, you do? Then what is your theory, Mr Holmes?"

I was not deceived by this sudden change to a more deferential manner. No man lets pride stand in the way of ambition, and, like the Vicar of Bray, Gregson was learning to adjust his allegiances to the politics of the moment. If he could use my brains and insight to gain an advantage over his rival, he would, even if it meant forgetting our differences. I, however, had other ideas about how far I was prepared to let him have his way.

"I cannot explain it at present, Inspector. The theft of the _brayette_ may be significant or it may have no relevance whatsoever. It is, apparently, a motiveless crime, which in itself makes the case an interesting one and, I believe, quite without parallel."

"I am glad you think so, sir," said Rodney-Ware, adopting his usual scowl. "However, that is small comfort to me."

"Rest assured we'll do all we can to recover the stolen items," Gregson spoke up, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes. "I've a fair idea who these professional types are, and the sooner we bring them in, the sooner we'll have those jewels back where they belong. As for this missing _brayette_…" He grinned at Lestrade. "Why don't you handle that, Inspector? I know how you like a challenge and the Commissioner always says how you excel at solving the more unusual crimes."

With little more to be learned from the scene, we left, Gregson to begin his inquires into the whereabouts and activities of certain of the capital's more notorious jewel thieves and Lestrade and myself out into the courtyard, where finally he gave vent to the frustration that had been gnawing away at his insides after his mauling at the hands of his colleague.

"I know you're not obliged to help me," said he, rounding on me, "but I didn't expect you to hand Gregson the case on a silver platter."

"You would have preferred me to stand by while he made a mockery of Scotland Yard with talk of acrobats and aerial robberies?"

He thrust his hands in his pockets. "No. But you didn't have to tell him quite so much. And what _is_ that smell?"

"It's me, I'm afraid. It's something my cousin gave me."

"Well, it's got no place in an investigation of this magnitude. There's a lot riding on the successful conclusion this case."

"I thought after that last business you were in your superior's good books."

"He still doesn't like me, and it's worse now after I – that is, we – came up trumps last time. He's set me up for a fall, I know it. The fact of the matter is that you're only as good as your last case. Whatever you've done in the past doesn't count for much when you're staring defeat in the face. This case is important, Mr Holmes, and I can't afford to let Gregson walk away with the credit."

"He won't," I said, lighting myself a cigarette. "Besides, I told him nothing that you had not already deduced for yourself."

"A gang of professional thieves – yes, I'd worked out that much already." He sighed and shook his head resignedly. "Well, there's nothing to be gained by standing around here all night. I've got to get back to the Yard. There's a few contacts I know who might be able to shed some light about the word on the streets concerning this theft."

"I doubt if they'll be able to tell you much."

"I don't know about that, Mr Holmes. A robbery of this magnitude doesn't slip by unnoticed, you know."

"It does if the thief wants discretion."

Lestrade stared at me, uncomprehending.

"This was no gang, Inspector. Nor was it planned. It was an act of audacious cunning and bravado by one man." Still he did not follow my line of reasoning. "You should have gleaned as much from the men employed as night watchmen. I should verify their credentials if I were you, but I believe you'll find that they are who they claim to be. A professional gang wouldn't have wasted time with lock picks; they would have had a man employed here, and what better capacity than as night watchman? All he would have had to do then was to inform them when it was safe to enter and leave the doors unlocked."

"How do you know one of them didn't?"

"Because he would have fled when the theft was discovered. No conspirator worth his salt would stay to fall into the hands of the police."

"He might be playing a close game, Mr Holmes, trying to brazen it out to give the others time to escape. As to the locks, well, he might have given them a key."

"Then why would they have used lock picks? No, Inspector, our man works alone."

"Rodney-Ware?"

I shook my head. "What has he to gain from the theft but the ruin of his reputation?"

"The insurance money?"

"Would be paid to the owners."

"Sale of the goods then. He would know people—unscrupulous collectors—willing to pay handsomely for such items."

"He suffers from the early stages of St Vitus's Dance. He could never have manufactured the marks left by the picks with such precision. Besides, there are other ways to steal jewels when one has ready access without drawing such public attention to the theft."

"By substituting replicas, you mean?"

I nodded. "Rodney-Ware is not your thief. The man you are looking for is resourceful and astute, but with his own code of morality. He has also a fatal streak of arrogance which may prove to be his undoing."

"How do you come to that conclusion?"

"The theft of the _brayette_. This was an opportunistic crime, Lestrade. Tonight was the first time he had visited the exhibition. Oh, he may have been here the night before to observe the movements of the night watchmen, but even of that I cannot be sure."

"He would leave such a thing to chance?"

"He is supremely confident of his abilities, to the point of recklessness, I might add. He enters, picks the lock, takes what he wants—mark that point well, Lestrade; a professional gang would have never settled for two items when there was so much else on offer—and then…"

I had been acting out the man's activities in the course of my explanation. Now I turned and advanced on the imaginary glass case with its transparent velvet covering.

"He is intrigued," I continued. "What precious item lies beneath? What gem could warrant such special treatment?" I pulled back the cloth. "And lo, what does he find inside? No gem, Lestrade, but an item of metal apparel. Our man has a sense of humour. Something about it appeals to him. He does not bother to use the glass cutter, but simply breaks the glass. You see my point about his bravado? It is almost as if he does not care if he is caught. Or perhaps he believes himself above such considerations. Either way, he takes the _brayette_ and leaves the way he came, thoughtfully locking the door behind him."

"So no one would know he had been there?"

"The night watchmen opened that door on their rounds. He had nothing to gain by relocking it, except out of concern for the items on display."

Lestrade took a moment to digest what I had told him. "If you're right, Mr Holmes, it's going to be a devil of a job to find this fellow. Why, it could be anyone!"

"Well, I think you may rule acrobats out of the equation."

He grunted with laughter. "That only leaves several hundred thousand other souls. Mind you, I'm grateful for the help. If there's ever anything I can do for you…"

"Actually, there is." I consulted my watch. The hour was late and the fog was as thick as ever. I did not relish the walk back to Miles's residence dressed as I was at this time of night and with the faint odour of sandalwood still drifting about my person. "You wouldn't be going in the direction of Mayfair, would you, Inspector?"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Nine!**_


	10. Chapter Nine

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Nine: Means to an End**

"And what, Sherlock, is the meaning of this?"

Brother Mycroft at his most censorious, quick to condemn, slow to apologise, was tiresome at the best of times. This morning he was quite intolerable.

A few hours' sleep and a general feeling of resentment about the case and my circumstances in general did not make me overly disposed to pander to his pugnacious mood. If the events of the previous day had taught me anything, it was that too many people were playing battledore and shuttlecock with my life. Lestrade and Gregson, warring over my brains like dogs over a hambone; Miles, a cousin who flirted with scandal and excess, and seemed to labour under the notion that I had been adopted as his apprentice, to take his place when he was otherwise engaged; and Mycroft, directing my talents as he saw fit, not to those incidents which held any appeal for me, but instead for the benefit of his own interests.

What none of these conflicting presences realised yet, however, was that I had staged the first of many minor rebellions against this tyranny that very morning. I had determined that I would do things _my_ way, and no longer allow myself to be dictated to by brothers, cousins and police inspectors who thought they knew better. I was able to listen to Mycroft's tirade with that secret satisfaction borne of knowing more than those who were allegedly better informed and was able to keep my temper because of it. In a few hours time, I would be able to make the first advance against Ricoletti – with a little help from one of Miles's friends.

It had been nearly three by the time I stumbled up the steps to my cousin's lodgings. His valet, the admirable Algernon, was still up and as deferential as ever. He made no reference to the time or that I had kept him from his bed, but merely inquired whether I would be requiring refreshment. I thanked him, but declined. What I had really needed was a bath. There had been something unpleasant about the evening that seemed to linger on my skin, as did the Vetiver to my clothes. In the end, out of consideration for the other tenants at so late an hour, I contented myself with the use of the washbasin – Algernon had anticipated this by providing several jugs of warm water – and then took to my bed.

By ten the next morning, Miles had still not returned. I had asked his valet if this was normal; I was assured that often my cousin went out on a Friday night and did not reappear again until the following Tuesday. I did not pursue the natural line of inquiry as to what he was doing that kept him from home for so long. From what I had already seen of his behaviour, my imagination was equal to the task of providing reasons enough.

Not that I was overly concerned for Miles's welfare, for I had had my own problems, namely a missive from Mycroft demanding that I meet with him at an address in Pall Mall. I gathered he expected a report on my progress. I suspected also that he would not be impressed that his younger sibling had managed to get his name into the morning's papers.

Langdale Pike had been busy, detailing a full account of the previous evening's ball, the names of the guests and any slight incidents that had struck him as being of importance. I winced when I saw his description of me as 'the newest addition to the Holmes's family name, intent on emulating his cousin's notorious career' and wondered if I would ever be permitted into civilised society again.

Despite the urgency in Mycroft's telegram – he excels in that thrifty ability of being able to communicate mood through a careful choice of words that marries brevity with asperity – I kept him waiting whilst I breakfasted and read the developments in the case of 'The Piccadilly Pilferers' as the theft at the Royal Academy was being called. Thankfully, and no doubt to relief of the higher echelons of Scotland Yard, there was no mention of nefarious acrobats.

Inspector Gregson was quoted as opining that it was 'the work of a professional gang of jewel thieves' and had declared that he expected to make an arrest very shortly. Inspector Lestrade, looking for a single opportunistic thief on my advice, apparently had had nothing pertinent to add and was permitted one line at the very end of the report, the author of the piece ascribing his role to 'assisting Inspector Gregson with the investigation'. I smiled as I imagined Lestrade's thoughts on reading that.

In fact, the morning seemed to hurry along without any manufactured dawdling from me. There is something about crisp linen and expensive cloth that demands care and respect. One does not simply throw one's self haphazardly into such exquisite tailoring – one takes time to appreciate the experience of being dressed, aided by Algernon, who had assumed I would require such consideration without my having to ask. When all was done, when my collar was stiffly erect against my throat, forcing me to stand a little taller, when my coat had been brushed free of lint and my necktie was smoothed to perfection, only then was I able to inspect my reflection and feel pleased with what I saw.

The dapper fellow in the mirror was less tattered youth than cultured young gentleman. I had, sartorially and some might say superficially, come of age.

If it is true that clothes maketh the man, that day I stepped from Miles's chambers a convert to the wonders of affected elegance. The effect on the world at large was quite startling. Gentleman nodded, women admired, footmen bowed. It is an experience not easily forgotten and, if I have permitted myself one vanity thereafter, it is in cultivating a certain primness and respectability of dress which I have striven to maintain even under the most demanding of circumstances.

I owe Miles that, if nothing else.

What I had not anticipated when I set out that morning was that fate was about to take a hand in events, in the form of a careworn, troubled fellow who came hurrying towards me, nearly knocking me to the ground in his haste.

I recognised him from the previous evening's ball. The same concerns that had caused him to seek out Miles last night had again brought Lieutenant Theodore Fairfax to his door. His eyes were wilder, heavily pouched and bloodshot, and his grooming fell short of the standards stipulated by Navy regulations.

We shook hands, but it was evident from the way his gaze drifted over my shoulder to the door from which I had emerged that his concerns lay not with the guest, but with the master. It occurred to me then that our interests were not entirely at odds. A man held to ransom over some misdemeanour from his youth and my knowledge that a vile blackmailer was at work, both moving in the same circles, seemed to me to be too much of a coincidence. Miles had said that the best course was to buy Fairfax's way out of trouble. I did not agree with that at all. Rather, another idea presented itself. If I could persuade Fairfax to my way of thinking, Ricoletti's reign of terror – if indeed he it was behind this man's troubles – could be ended at one fell swoop.

"I have not seen Miles this morning," I said in answer to his inquiry. "I do not know where he is."

"I must trust that he will return," he murmured. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. I will wait upon him."

He would have gone but for my calling him back. "What will you do if he cannot raise the money?"

He stared at me, his eyes bulging with fear. "Miles has told you?"

"The barest details, Mr Fairfax. I know very little, admittedly, of the case."

"But he does have the money? For God's sake, tell me that he does."

"Whether he does or does not seems to me not to be the problem. You should resist this blackmailer's demands."

He started to laugh, nervously at first, then louder, verging on a hysterical keening that made a carriage horse shy and brought servants out to peer up at us in the area below where we stood. I shook him roughly by the shoulder to bring him back to his senses.

"I cannot resist," said the unfortunate fellow, burying his face in his hands. "Ruin will follow if it is ever known what I have done."

"Honour is nothing if you have to spend the rest of your life in the power of another man."

Confused racked his already tortured features. "I do not understand, Mr Holmes. He requires one payment of a thousand pounds and that is an end of the matter."

I shook my head. "The blackmailer is an avaricious creature. One payment is rarely enough."

Fairfax paled.

"Exposure of this man is the safest course," I advised. "Only then may you consider yourself free of his influence."

"You do not know what you ask," said he, swallowing hard. "What he has—"

"Is supposition, nothing more." It was time to lay my cards on the table. "It is Ricoletti of whom we speak, is it not?"

He staggered back, coming up against the railings and near knocking the trailing lobelia from their pots. "Why would you say that?" he ejaculated. "Is it as easy to see my guilt as you suggest? Dear God, if Helena—that dear sweet girl—ever comes to learn of my shame… Mr Holmes, I would tear the heart from my breast rather than bring sorrow to that gentle creature."

"Then put an end to this torment, while you still can."

"An end," he murmured. His eyes wandered to the far side of the street and a vacant expression replaced his agitation. "I have considered it. Now I see that I must do as you say."

"I can help you, if you trust me."

"Trust you?" His gaze drifted dully back to my face. "Mr Holmes, I do not even _know_ you, yet you appear to know the deepest secrets of my soul, as all must soon enough."

"Whatever you have done is as nothing compared to the villainy of this man," I urged. "You will not be castigated, Mr Fairfax, you will be applauded."

"What do you propose? The police?"

It was not my first choice. I was conscious that I had been advised not to pursue legal avenues against Ricoletti for good reason. He had too many supporters and proof of his blackmail would be hard to establish unless Fairfax had some written demand from the devil. Otherwise, it would be a matter of his stating that whatever financial arrangements lay between them was a business concern, nothing more.

What I had in mind was catching the blackguard in the act. I needed to be present at the moment the money was handed over. The testimony of a foolish young man caught in a compromising situation was one thing; that of an independent, respectable witness quite another. With my support and backing, Fairfax could denounce Ricoletti without fear of ridicule. Then others would speak out against him and his hold on the impressionable and vulnerable would be broken. With the doors of civilised society closed against him, he would be ruined.

I would have preferred to have seen him behind bars for his crimes, but I had been cautioned to employ subtler means. He may not have pulled the trigger of the gun that had ended the life of young Bassett, but he had certainly provided the bullets. That charge could never now be proved and he would answer for it in no court of men. For now, I had to settle for his exposure and disgrace. After that, all I would have to do was to bide my time. Stripped of his exalted position and access to the coffers of the wealthy, I had every confidence that it would not be long before his criminal tendencies would turn to other means of acquiring his ill-gotten gains. And when he did, I would be waiting.

Assuring Fairfax that what I proposed was his only safeguard, I made arrangements to meet him at his club to discuss our plans as soon as I had had my interview with Mycroft. I was satisfied with my work – a few more days and this despicable business would be at an end. Ricoletti would fall and I could return to Montague Street, away from cousins and brothers, back to my books and my own particular areas of study. Fairfax too seemed to a new peace of mind, and when we parted, he was quieter, less the desperate soul of earlier and now more firm in purpose. So it was that I hailed a cab and set out for Pall Mall, now better placed to face my over-bearing brother.

The address he had given was that of the proposed location of his latest interest, namely a club for London's unclubbable. The idea seemed to me to be illogical. If a man's bent was towards misanthropy, what possible need would he have for a club where he would be exposed to the one thing loathsome to his soul? Mycroft, however, having greater experience in such things, was certain the venture would prove popular, again paradoxically to my mind, for even the most hardened misanthrope, not averse as he might be to the comforts of a club, would surely baulk at such a throng of his fellows, however like-minded.

As usual, it appeared that my elder brother knew better. Enough gentlemen had paid their subscriptions in advance for premises to be selected at one of the grander establishments on Pall Mall, a florid Classical profusion of applied Corinthian columns, decorated pediment and balconied _piano nobile_ recently vacated by another club whose members had elected to move around the corner to the relative quiet of St James's Street. The transformation was already underway and, if Mycroft had his way, the thud of the carpenters' hammers and the chatter of the workmen would be the last noises louder than a whisper ever to be heard within these walls.

I found him in the only habitable room, a chamber half-given over to sheeted furniture, with a large bow window overlooking Pall Mall. A table and an armchair had been provided for his use, the former being covered with a series of architect's plans and the latter amply filled by my increasingly corpulent sibling. His mood was not agreeable, partly because, so he told me, the builders were forever pushing back the date of completion, but mostly because he had read Pike's account of my recent activities, which accounted for his throwing the newspaper onto the table with contempt and peering at me down the length of his nose.

"Well? I am waiting for an answer, Sherlock."

I selected a cigarette and took my time in lighting it before I deigned to reply. "Do you generally believe everything you read in the press?"

"No, sir, I do not, but where Miles is concerned, I would not put anything past him, including…"

Words enough to finish his statement failed him. Instead, red-faced and fairly broiling with indignation, he hauled himself from his chair and came over to where I stood. Mycroft has an inch or so in height over me when he can bother to rise to the occasion, but it is the size of the man that is wont to intimidate. I dare say this may work on lesser mortals, but the days when Mycroft could impose his will on me by sheer force of personality were long past. I remained impassive, a course which I have found from long experience to be successful if only because it infuriates him all the more.

"I am asking you for an explanation," he persisted, seeing that his methods and devices were having no effect on me.

"No, you are _demanding_, Mycroft, which is quite a different matter. I never respond to demands, you should know that by now."

"Then you _were_ at this ball," said he, his brows dancing with pious outrage. "Your refusal to reply has given me proof positive."

I regarded him placidly, determined not to be roused. "Since you have deduced it, yes, I did attend."

"With Miles?"

"He obtained the invitation for me. I could hardly go without him."

"Confound it all, Sherlock! When I gave you this commission, I did not expect _this_ sort of behaviour."

"What 'sort of behaviour'? Do you mean mixing with other people?"

"You appear to have done a good deal more than 'mix'. 'Emulating his cousin's notorious career' it said in the paper – that, sir, is to what I refer. There is also mention of your association with certain ladies."

His almost prurient tone of accusation made me want to laugh out loud. "I would hardly call it that. I spoke to two women: Lady Agnes Markham—"

"Ah, yes, an eminently respectable lady," said Mycroft, nodding approvingly. "It is not as bad as I feared. I vaguely knew old Markham. He was turned down for a diplomatic post early on in his career and thereafter retired to his club. And this other woman?"

"Madame de Mont St Jean. She is a friend of Miles."

"A 'friend'?" His nose wrinkled with suspicion. "That does not surprise me. Miles was always very good at making 'friends'."

"I can quite see why. She had a very _warm_ personality."

I said it lightly, but my brother was unimpressed. His expression was stony, his displeasure implacable.

"I am glad that you find this amusing, Sherlock. I fear I was mistaken in placing my trust in you. I had imagined you were capable of emerging unscathed from this undertaking. In future, you will stay away from Miles's friends, whoever they may be."

"I find your implication that I do not know how to conduct myself to be insulting."

"I am not implying anything," said he tersely. "I am _stating_ it, brother. For all your intelligence, you are unworldly, an innocent amongst the wolves. You do not seem to realise that you have not the protection of wealth to imagine that you may flirt with scandal and escape the consequences. Instead of dallying with Miles's friends, you would do well to remember why you are there. To act, Sherlock, to act! Not to meddle with women."

"I have 'meddled' with no one, as you put it," I retorted. "As for your concern for my reputation, Mycroft, you forget that you were all too ready to have me tutored by our reprobate of a cousin."

"There was no other way. For all his faults, no one knows the world in which Ricoletti operates better than Miles." He glanced at me, taking in my clothes with a critical eye. "You look very good, by the way. How much is this going to cost me?"

I bridled. "Nothing. Miles paid."

"Miles never pays for anything, on principle. Rest assured, the bill for your tailoring shall fall at my door."

"If it does, then forward it to me."

"And how will you pay? With fine words and promises? No, Sherlock, I am not passing judgement on your circumstances. Nor did I say that I objected to the cost. I have simply stated how matters stand. No doubt you have gathered as much for yourself. What do you make of Miles?"

"He is an arrogant, vain, empty-headed, pompous oaf."

Mycroft sighed with what sounded like relief. "At least you retain your good sense in that respect."

"He says much the same about you."

"Does he? What does he say _exactly_?"

Miles had said a good many things, not all of which I was prepared to share with Mycroft. Some of it had undoubtedly been true - talk of his being 'an arch-manipulator of the first water' had struck uncomfortably close to home. More unusual was the look of wariness I saw in my brother's eyes as though he was apprehensive of what Miles may have confided to me. So rare was it to find him off his guard that I decided to profit from it.

"Why does he hate you?" I asked.

Mycroft turned away and lumbered back to his chair, not before I had noticed that his flaccid cheeks had paled. "Has he told you this?" he asked, feigning indifference to the turn of our conversation.

"No. It is obvious, however, that some deep animosity lies between you. What is the cause?"

He considered, and in that moment of pause I knew that whatever I was about to hear was unlikely to be the truth. "It is a difference of interests, nothing more," said he, distracting himself by taking a pinch of snuff. "We were at school together, then Oxford. Despite that, we had very little in common. He went his way, I went mine." He fixed me with a hard stare. "If that satisfies your morbid curiosity, Sherlock, do you think we might move on to the pressing business of Ricoletti? I trust you were not entirely distracted by the evening's entertainment to forget the reason for your presence. What progress have you made? The Prime Minister is not a patient man and will expect a report."

"I have made some progress."

Had Mycroft not been quite so truculent that morning, I might have been willing to tell him of my plans.

"I did not spend the night entirely employed in profitless enterprise. I have met the man."

"And?"

"I had my palm read. He seemed to think that I was under the influence of strong familial ties." I let this thought linger. "As far as readings went, it was nothing out of the ordinary – oh, save for his prediction that I would die would drowning."

Mycroft sat forward in his chair, his expression all earnestness. "He told you that?"

I stared at him in tolerant good-humour. "Come now, Mycroft. The man is a charlatan. He had to say something. Surely you do not believe such nonsense?"

"I take talk of death to be very serious indeed," said he. "You forget that he told Lady Anstead that she would not live to marry."

"Lady Anstead was old, as you have said yourself. Her death was not unexpected."

"Old age is one thing, but drowning may take a man at any time. When did he predict your 'death' would happen?"

"He was not specific."

"And he said this before witnesses?"

"He did."

Mycroft took to shaking his head and muttering to himself.

"Whatever is the matter?" I asked, amused by his reaction.

"God forbid that I have placed my brother in danger, but I see now how foolish I was in suggesting that you take this case. You must drop it, Sherlock. On that point, I insist."

If there is anything calculated to harden my resolve, it is being told what to do.

"No," I said. "I will not without good reason."

For the second time that day – and possibly that year – Mycroft made the supreme effort of rising from his chair. "You will not defy me in this matter, brother."

"Then tell me why. Not because a reader of palms has said that I shall one day die?"

"No, because he has _predicted_ that you will. Even the worst sort of charlatan offers his audience some proof, however mean, of his abilities. He spoken of your death; now he must stand by that claim. What concerns me, Sherlock, is that Ricoletti may have marked you out for murder!"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Ten!**_


	11. Chapter Ten

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Ten: ****Deals and Reputations**

Some little time later, I found myself in the comfortable surroundings of the Naval and Military Club, awaiting the arrival of Lieutenant Theodore Fairfax with a glass of whisky and soda in my hand and my thoughts turned to the contemplation of death – or specifically, death by water.

Since Mycroft had explained the reasons for his concern, I could not entirely discount the possibility that Ricoletti had designs on my life. For what reason remained unclear. He did not know me or anything of my profession, and I found it hard to believe that news had reached him of my purpose, known as it was to so few. I had been last night just another face in the crowd, one of the many in the fawning, adoring masses, ready and willing to place my faith in his alleged skills at palmistry.

And yet he had not told me of health, wealth and happiness, as any fairground entertainer might in hope of a shining coin; instead he had spoken of my death and had succeeded in unnerving the impressionable young men and women gathered about him. At the time I had found it rather amusing. Now I was not so sure.

If not because he knew that I was investigating him, then I struggled to discern the reason for his prediction. A more sceptical man might have said that he had simply told me what he had read in my palm. This I discounted. Talk of seeing waterfalls etched in the lines of one's hand was ridiculous enough; that it should have any bearing on the future course of one's life was too much for a rational man to believe.

I was left therefore with the inescapable conclusion that he did indeed wish to kill me, and my vanity baulked at the only possible reason that made any sense, that my death would serve to add lustre to his performance and reputation. In a word, I was insignificant enough to be quietly murdered to suit his prediction, and yet conversely of sufficient import to have Ricoletti's name lauded the length and breadth of the country.

Well, in that, he was going to be disappointed. I had no intention of dying to suit Ricoletti, either by water or any other means. If one must suffer sacrifice, better that the cause be noble than for the mere enhancement of a charlatan's career.

If it was to be prevented, I saw that I must be on my guard. That raised the question of how the deed was to be done. I consider myself a fair swimmer, so if he intended to pitch me into a river and leave me to drown, he would not succeed. But this assumed drowning was his plan for my demise.

As a prediction, 'death by water' was too vague to be precise. Water may take many forms: the dagger of ice, scalding steam, the poisoned glass of liquid. I took another sip of my drink and considered the swirling concoction. Poison was of course an obvious danger. For all I knew, something colourless and odourless might have already been slipped into my glass, leaving me well on my way to an agonising death. Set against that was the consideration that I had had the same glass in my hand for over half an hour and felt no ill effects. In future, however, I would have to take care where I dined. Not that it would need to be ingested – the master poisoners of the Renaissance knew well of the heinous purpose to which gloves, books and even necklaces could be employed.

If I was to stay alive, I would have to be more aware of my actions. Anything wet or damp had to be treated as suspect, even down to the flannel I used to wipe my face. I would drink nothing I had not prepared myself. And I would stay away from large bodies of water. Living in London with the Thames never far away presented me with a problem, but there was no need to tempt fate by standing at the water's edge. If Ricoletti meant to kill me, I was not about to make it easy for him.

My hopes of striking before he had the chance to do so were rapidly fading as one long hour slid into another and there was still no sign of Fairfax. After two and a half hours of waiting, it was obvious that he was not going to keep our appointment. As Lady Agnes had predicted, finding someone brave enough to speak out against Ricoletti's blackmail was proving difficult. Fairfax had proved himself unequal to the task and I imagined that he had turned to my cousin and the easier route of paying to keep his secrets from the world.

Discouraged, I left the club and made my way back to Mayfair. With any luck, Fairfax might be there waiting for Miles's return and I could persuade him to side with my cause yet again. The journey took me along Piccadilly, now thronged by day by the respectable, happy to throw a coin or two into the hat of blind violinist whilst disparaging the plight of an elderly consumptive man turned from the doorway where he had been trying to sleep by a liveried company employee. His protestations turned to foul oaths that led to his arrest, which I fancied had been his intention all along, for even a night in the stark surroundings of a police cells was to be preferred to the cold comfort of a doorstep.

Further along, I passed the scene of last night's theft, Burlington House and the Royal Academy of Arts, its doors closed tightly against the world in general and a smattering of clamouring journalists in particular, who were huddled outside in expectation of some chance remark or new development. It came as something of a surprise, therefore, to see the stately figure of Langdale Pike emerging from their number. He acknowledged me with a warm, if slightly predatory smile, and took it upon himself to assume that I both needed and welcomed a companion.

"So, Mr Holmes, we meet again," said he. "You do have a habit of turning up in the most unexpected of places. First the baths, now here. An extraordinary coincidence."

"The same may be said of you, Mr Pike. I would have thought that society journalists had better things to do with their time than report on burglaries."

"Langdale Pike may baulk at such an assignment," said he, offering an apologetic grin, "but Selwyn Pratt has bills to pay and a fancy to eat. My editor suggested that if I wanted my wages at the end of the week, I should lend a hand with the less glamorous items of news." He gave me a dazzling and slightly unnerving smile. "As it happens, I was able to obtain an interview with Rodney-Ware, the Secretary of the RA. He is not a happy man. He tells me that Associates are up in arms and the police inspectors sent by the Yard are the worst sort of bunglers. What is your opinion of the case?"

I glanced at him. "Why do you ask me?"

"No reason, other than that you were here last night."

His words stopped me in my tracks. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mr Pike."

"Oh, I think you do, Mr Holmes. After our last meeting, I made it my business to find out a little more about you. Let's say that you intrigued me. You appeared to have very little in common with Miles and yet you had sought his company. I had to ask why. And, after going through the cuttings, I found this."

He produced a yellowing slip of newsprint from his pocket and held it out to me. I found myself staring at an account headed _'Scandal at the Tankerville'_, followed by a report of the affair that had so nearly resulted in my demise some weeks before.

"What does this have to do with me?" I asked, passing it back to him.

"It says here that a young man was injured in the course of helping the police with their investigation. A case of tension pneumothorax, or in layman's terms—"

"A sucking chest wound," I finished for him. "I know what it is." I also had painful memories of what it had felt like as my chest had slowly filled with air that had no means of escape, not that I was about to admit as much to Pike.

He eyed me shrewdly. "I imagine you do, Mr Holmes. You are the young man referred to in this article, aren't you?"

I did not feel inclined to dignify that question with an answer. Instead I walked on, only for Pike again to fall in step at my side.

"Come, now, Mr Holmes, you never came by that scar in any duel over a lady's honour. There are few ladies these days who are not capable of defending their own honour, although I understand that the pistol is now the preferred weapon of choice. But then, of course, you admitted that much yourself at our previous meeting."

"I'm sure that is true, Mr Pike," I conceded. "But why would you imagine that I was the injured party mentioned in connection with the Tankerville Scandal?"

"Because of Inspector Lestrade. It's common knowledge that he 'consults' you from time to time."

"And who has told you that?"

"I have my sources."

"Name them."

He tutted and shook his head. "You could hardly expect me to do that. I will say that my information comes from someone advantageously placed in Scotland Yard to know what he's talking about. You aren't a popular person down there, especially not after you got Lestrade out of a hole with that last case." His eyes sparkled. "Word is that certain people consider you to be something of an upstart."

"Scotland Yard wouldn't be able to detect an upstart if one ran through the building robbing them of their valuables in broad daylight!" I said, with rather more heat than I had intended. In so doing, I had played in Pike's hands. His smile widened into the knowing grin of a man who has gambled and won.

"This information, it wouldn't have come by way of Mr Gregson would it?" I asked.

"I am not at liberty to divulge my sources, Mr Holmes." His expression was inscrutable. I had my suspicions, but Pike was giving nothing away. "You admit then to helping Lestrade in this case?"

It occurred to me that whatever was being whispered about me, clearly I was not being given my fair due. Far from helping him, I felt inclined to say that I had done the lion's share of the work for very little by way of praise or recognition. I was aware, however, that Pike might well use my words in print against both Lestrade and myself, something which would be of advantage to neither of us at the present time.

"Yes," I had to admit. "I did 'help' him."

"And you're assisting him now, with this business of the theft at the Royal Academy? Rodney-Ware told me as much."

"I _was _here last night. Whether what I had to say was of any value is another matter."

"Well, perhaps if you told me, I could be the judge of that."

"Mr Pike," I said firmly. "If you have questions about the case, you would do better to direct them to Inspector Lestrade in person, or better yet, Inspector Gregson, whom I understand, from the account in _your _paper, is in charge of the investigation. I can tell you nothing."

"Can't... or won't?" came Pike's voice from behind me as I started away. "What would Miles say, I wonder, if he knew his cousin was a private inquiry agent? Do you think he would be so very angry to learn that he had been deceived? I'm told that he has a most ferocious temper."

I paused and looked back. "I hope I never find myself in the position of having to find out."

"I might tell him. I count him amongst my acquaintances, after all. Of you, I know very little for certain, except that you are a fraud and a liar."

"If you tell Miles, Mr Pike, you would be committing slander. I am not an inquiry agent, private or otherwise."

"Then what?"

"Ask your source. He seems to have all the answers."

No sooner had I turned my back on him than he was pursing me once more. To my immense satisfaction, Pike was proving to be the sort of journalist who could never resist the lure of a good story, regardless of the consequences. With careful handling, I saw that he might prove useful, now and in the future. Perhaps there was something to be said for having what Pike had called a 'tame journalist' on one's side, after all. The power wielded by such men of letters is certainly never to be underestimated.

"Mr Holmes, forgive me," he said, his tone suggesting that he was more frustrated than contrite. "That was clumsy and presumptuous."

"Yes, I thought it lacked your usual style."

"Then please understand. You're a reasonable man and, from what I hear, good at whatever it is you do. If I am ever to rid myself of the spectre of Selwyn Pratt, it would take one _good_ story. I sense that you are the man to help me do that."

"I thought Miles was assisting in that capacity."

He inclined his head. "He does what he can, and for that I'm very grateful. But given what I already know about you, Mr Holmes, you appear to be the more interesting member of the family. It also occurs to me that your sudden interest in Ricoletti might be something more than mere idle curiosity."

"Why would you assume that?"

"At the baths, yesterday, you asked a good many questions about him. Then last night, you deliberately sought him out. When he read you palm, he told you that you were going to die, didn't he?"

It was not quite a chill that ran through me, but certainly I experienced a strange feeling of disquiet at hearing this. "Where did you hear that?"

"Nothing is ever a secret in society, Mr Holmes. Did you know that Lord Rotherhithe is ready to wager £1,000 on your being dead within the week? What Ricoletti says, you see, has a habit of coming true."

"If it does, his reputation will be enhanced."

"If it does, Mr Holmes, you will be dead."

A man of more delicate sensibilities might have had the decency to look embarrassed at having made such a statement. Pike's journalistic instincts had superseded any such considerations, however, and his expression betrayed the hungry look of a man keen to make capital by securing an interview with the condemned.

"There is a problem with your line of reasoning," I replied. "I do not believe Ricoletti's prediction."

"Many will. His star will be in the ascendancy again if he is proved correct."

"He is waning? He seemed to be the centre of attention last night."

"He _was_ popular for a time, it is true, less so now. Children often grow weary of their toys and find another diversion to amuse them."

"Unless that toy finds a means of providing new interest," I added. "Mr Pike, would you oblige me by keeping the news of my imminent 'death' out of your column?"

He shook his head. "My dear boy, what you ask is quite impossible. It will not be long before this prediction is widely known and reported in every newspaper of worth from Land's End to John O'Groats. Now, what would my editor say if ours was the only publication not to have some report of it?"

"He will thank you."

Pike chuckled. "I fear you know very little about the ways of the press."

"He will thank you," I reiterated, "for ensuring that his is the only publication not held up to ridicule when it is proved that Ricoletti is nothing more than a rank fraud."

"May I quote you on that?"

"No, but in due course, Mr Pike, I shall give you a story that will eclipse your petty tales of predictions and scandals."

I saw the workings of a keen mind reflected in his eyes as he considered my words. I saw too how quickly he came to his decision. He thrust his hand out to me and we made our bargain.

"I shall keep it from my column as long as I am able," said he. "In turn, you must agree to speak to no other about this matter… and of course, stay alive."

* * *

_**Look out, Mr Holmes! Sounds like big brother was right after all! Is he going to make it out of this story alive? **_

_**Continued in Chapter Eleven!**_


	12. Chapter Eleven

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Eleven: Death by Water**

We parted that afternoon, our bargain struck, Langdale Pike to write up his interview with the odious Rodney-Ware and me to Miles's rooms in Mayfair. Staying alive was something I very much intended to do, however pervasive the rumours and whatever the opinions of idle young men with money to waste by placing bets upon my survival. None of these people knew me and yet, like Byron, I had awoke that morning and found myself famous – for all the wrong reasons.

Being remembered as the luckless victim of a fraud and murderer was not my preferred notion of fame. Therefore, I would live, and confound Ricoletti in his foul schemes. All I needed was an ally and he I hoped to find cowering in an opulent Mayfair residence.

There was still no sign of Miles when I returned to his home and nor, according to his valet, had there been any visitors in my absence. My last chance of cornering Fairfax before he went running to my cousin had gone. I had to assume that he knew Miles's habits well enough to have found him in whatever hole he may using to sleep off the night's excesses and that they were at this moment conspiring to satisfy the demands of a rapacious blackmailer.

I could only berate myself for giving Fairfax the opportunity to mull over our plans and change his mind. Instead of bandying words with my brother, I should have used the time more profitably to persuade the unhappy fellow of the soundness of my case. It was galling to think that I had let so obvious an opportunity slip through my fingers. The blame for that I could only place at Mycroft's freshly-painted club door.

Whilst I was brooding over how I was to make good my word to Langdale Pike, the valet announced that a Detective Inspector Lestrade was inquiring after me.

"Should I tell him that you aren't at home, sir?" he asked.

The valet's suggestion had some appeal. I was in no mood for visitors, although I could not summon up resentment enough at being disturbed to be uncivil. A moment or two later, Lestrade entered the room, wide-eyed with wonderment at his surroundings and distinctly ill-at-ease.

"It's a nice place you've got here," said he, perching on the edge of one of Miles's plump armchairs as if he thought he might be taking a liberty by daring to sit down. "This little lot would set you back a few quid, I dare say."

"I wouldn't know," I said. "It's not to my taste. Tea, Inspector, or something stronger?"

"Tea would be just fine for me, but you go ahead. It's a bit early in the day for me." His eyes took to a restless wandering of the room while I poured myself a drink. "Your cousin not at home?"

"I don't know where he is. Out somewhere doing something, I suppose."

"He's a bit of a lad, your cousin, so I've heard," said Lestrade. "Got an eye for the ladies. Get on well with him, do you?"

"Not especially," I said, taking the seat opposite his. "Inspector, you haven't come all this way to discuss my relations. What was it you wanted?"

"Well, Mr Holmes, it's about that business last night at the Royal Academy."

"Ah, yes, Gregson and his acrobats."

He returned my smile. "Yes, well, you set him to rights on that account. He's been busy this morning pulling every tea-leaf in London. His standard reply at the moment is that he's expecting 'to make an arrest shortly'." Lestrade chuckled. "Good luck to him, I say. Little does he know that he's barking up the wrong tree."

"And what progress have you made?" I asked.

"I was thinking along the lines of what you said, Mr Holmes, about our man working alone and being skilled at what he does. It struck me that this wouldn't have been the first time he's pulled a job like this. So, I had a look through the files of some old cases—"

His slight inflection of tone did not escape me. "Unsolved thefts, you mean?"

Lestrade's expression creased into a grimace. "Yes, you might put it like that. Not all on our patch, you understand – we get sent a lot of this because often as not the stolen items end up in London and we have to be on the lookout for them." From inside his overcoat, he produced a clutch of tattered files. "What I was looking for was a pattern. Now I'm not saying that these are all our man, but they appeared to have certain factors in common. I wondered if you'd care to take a look?"

As it happened, I had nothing better to do with my time. I needed to take my mind from the problem of Ricoletti for a while, and Lestrade and his collection of unsolved cases seemed to be an ideal diversion. For the most part, they were uninspiring: thefts from houses were not our man's style, whilst the identity of the person who plucked Lady Trandlemere's diamonds from her ears at a masked ball seemed to me a question that should be put to the lady herself. A quantity of money and gems stolen from a jeweller's safe in Bond Street I discounted when I saw that the thieves had gained entry by breaking a window – again, on the grounds that it did not fit with what we knew about our thief – although the theft of a Roman glass drinking vessel from a museum in Birmingham seemed rather more promising.

"This?" said Lestrade dubiously, leafing through the file I had indicated. "A broken trinket stuck together with glue? Hardly seems worth our man's time."

"To a collector, a piece like that would be worth a small fortune, broken or not. Note the details of the case, Lestrade. No discernible signs of entry and the theft was only discovered when a visitor complained about the presence of a glass jug engraved with a crude picture of John Bull and a saucy verse in the midst of the antiquities."

"As you say, it fits with our man's method. What d'you think of this?"

He passed me the last of his files. "The Cambridge Mummy Murder?" I inquired, glancing at the uppermost page. "I fail to see the relevance."

"You've heard of the case?"

"Naturally. It was about four years ago, as I recall. The museum curator had killed his wife, embalmed her and placed her corpse in an Egyptian mummy case on display."

Lestrade nodded. "What you didn't hear was how the Cambridge force came to know about it. The business was grotesque enough without adding to the horror. You see, the museum was burgled and a number of items taken. Turns out that an hour or so after the crime had been committed – not that they knew anything had happened at the time – a constable was distracted from his post. When he returned he found this mummy in his place with a single white lily on her chest and the bandages torn away from the face."

"You mean to say that the mummy – or rather we should say the woman's corpse – was removed from the museum and left where it would be found and crime discovered? Well, our thief certainly has nerve, not to mention a conscience. What was taken?"

"It's listed here as 'grave goods'," said Lestrade with distaste. "Although why anyone would want to go robbing the dead beats me."

"But again of value to a collector. Was anything ever recovered?"

The door opened and the valet came in bearing a loaded silver tray.

"Well, here's the queerest thing of all, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, leaning forward. "About a year ago, Sir Henry Harkness-Jones died and left everything in his collection to the British Museum."

"Tea, sir?" asked the valet, interposing himself between us.

"Yes, thank you, leave it there. Now, Mr Holmes, guess what they found when they came to catalogue it."

"Grave goods."

"Milk, sir?"

"Just a splash. Yes, grave goods. And not any old grave goods either. It was those things stolen in the Cambridge case."

"Sugar, sir?"

Lestrade's patience at these continual petty interruptions finally gave way. "I'll see to it," said he, glaring at the valet. He was about to say something else when I registered a sudden change in his expression along with a narrowing of his eyes. "Here, do I know you?"

"I shouldn't think so, sir."

"Well, you look familiar."

The valet remained impassive. "I've been told before that I have that sort of face, sir."

"What's your name?"

"Algernon, sir."

"And your surname?"

"Algernon, sir."

Lestrade stared at him hard. "Algernon Algernon? That's a funny name."

"Algernon _is_ his surname, Inspector," I said with a sigh.

"Oh, so you're one of _those_ servants, are you?" said Lestrade, eyeing the man critically.

"I'm a gentleman's gentleman, sir."

"So what's your Christian name?"

"Walter, sir. Spelt with an 'l'."

Lestrade squinted up at him, aware of an insult in the man's obsequious manner and unsure how to counter it. "Well, just you keep your nose out of trouble, Mr Algernon. That'll be all."

"I'll do my best, sir," said the valet, his voice aching with disdain. "Is there anything you require, Mr Holmes?"

I shook my head, and Algernon retreated back to the kitchen and his other duties.

"Gentleman's gentleman indeed," Lestrade muttered. "I took him for the page. Talk about airs and graces. Some of these types have got more front than Brighton. Brazen upstart."

The insult was a revealing one, considering that Pike had told me that such an epithet was used in conjunction with my name by certain of the officers at Scotland Yard. That it had come readily to Lestrade's mind in my presence made me wonder if he had made an unfortunate association of subjects. Here I was, the upstart consulting detective in the house of his decadent cousin, waited on by an upstart valet.

The uncharitable part of my nature has long had a tendency to assume the worst of people until evidence appears to the contrary. It now rushed headlong to the conclusion that Lestrade's voice was amongst those who criticised my methods, if only to bolster his own career and standing in the eyes of his fellow inspectors.

And that thought was galling.

I tried to tell myself that I was being ungenerous, but the seed of doubt had been planted. Upstart I may have been, but to me he had come, as usual picking my brains for his greater glory. In that respect, there was little to choose between him and Ricoletti, except that one would have me die with my reputation intact, whilst the other would smile to my face and belittle me behind my back.

With this flame of indignation simmering in the recesses of my mind, I watched him help himself to several sugars and take a sip of his tea. "Ah, that hits the spot," said he. "Rum cove he may be, but he makes a decent cup of tea, I'll give him that."

"We all have our redeeming features," I remarked, hopefully not with as much bitterness as I felt.

It occurred to me that I should address the issue outright and have an end to my suspicions. That would mean, however, revealing that I too had my sources, an advantage too good to waste for a moment's gratification. I knew also that I would gain greater satisfaction from being able to demonstrate that my upstart methods were capable of producing better results than his ever could. Nor could I deny that the business held considerable interest for me, especially in its more _outré_ features.

"We were discussing the Cambridge case," I said, moving on to safer ground. "If Harkness-Jones had possession of the museum artefacts, then we may assume that our original supposition is correct, that the goods find their way not onto the open market, but into the hands of private collectors. Therefore, our man has connections. A dealer in antiquities perhaps?"

Lestrade was too busy scribbling my thoughts down in his notebook to reply.

"And you might also want to speak to Mrs Farintosh."

He glanced up at me. "Any particular reason why?"

"Because I believe she may be holding something back. Do you know anything of the lady?"

"A respectable widow by all accounts."

"When people are called 'respectable' it is usually to compensate for some perceived failing. Yes, Lestrade, interview this Mrs Farintosh. Tell her you know about the tiara."

"But I know nothing about it."

I sighed. "Yes, but let her think that you do. Tell her that you will only be able to help her if she takes you into her full confidence. That should persuade her."

Lestrade put down his pencil and frowned. "Now, listen, Mr Holmes, I know your methods are a little—"

"Unorthodox?" I suggested, perhaps a touch bitterly.

"But I can't go harassing decent folk on your say-so," he went on, noticeably not disputing my remark. "What is it I am supposed to know about her opal tiara?"

"If we knew that, you would not have to ask her. I'll wager there is something, however. The nature of the stolen items indicate that. You'll observe that in these other cases nothing was taken that would cause the owner personal loss."

"I think the museums involved might argue with you on that point."

"But consider, Lestrade. Apart from Mrs Farintosh's tiara, all the other stolen items belonged to public institutions. They might be humiliated, but the theft would not cause personal hardship and grief over the loss of a treasured family heirloom."

"You're forgetting the Mary Queen of Scots Diadem."

"The owners of that won't miss one amongst so many," said I. "For Mrs Farintosh to be thus deprived, however, suggests that the thief wished to draw our attention to it, as he did in the case of the Cambridge mummy."

"Or that he's callous enough to steal from a widow."

"No, there were other items he could have taken. Our thief is very particular in his choice." From the street outside, I heard the clatter of hooves and the rattle of harness. "The Diadem he will sell to a private buyer, but he took the opal tiara and the _brayette_ for another reason," I continued, making my way over to the window in time to see Miles emerging from a hansom cab. "The only question I cannot answer is why it has taken so long for the stolen items to reappear."

"You think he'll return them?"

"Oh, yes. The tiara certainly, although in what condition I cannot say. As for the _brayette_, I cannot decide whether its removal had a specific purpose other than an act of bravado, like the placing of the jug in the space where the Roman glass vessel had been." I turned back to him. "Well, I'm sure time will tell. Until then, interview Mrs Farintosh. You may be able to spare her embarrassment when the time comes."

"I'll do as you say," said he with a discontented shake of his head. "Although I'm blessed if I know what you think she can tell us about the case. Unless you think she stole her own tiara?"

"I do not discount the possibility. Would you say she is capable of such an act?"

"Mr Holmes, really, there are limits. What you suggest is impossible for a resp—decent woman like that."

"It is improbable rather than impossible, and therefore cannot be ruled out. Is there anything else, Lestrade? If not, my cousin is home and there are matters that I need to discuss with him."

He rose to his feet, shedding papers from a file that slid from his lap. As he stooped to gather up the egregious sheets, the door opened and Miles entered, grey with exhaustion and bruised beneath the eyes. In any other man, I should have thought him suffering from some terrible decline, except this I knew to be the result of his evening's activities. His gaze lit upon me with the weary resignation of a man with the troubles of the world on his shoulders and not the energy to lift them.

"Sherlock, I—"

He stopped abruptly when Lestrade straightened up. With his arms full, he was able only to nod a greeting, more than Miles could bring himself to do with both hands free.

"Inspector, this is my cousin, Mr Miles Holmes," I said. "Miles, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"Indeed," said Miles. There was that about his tone which implied he was less than pleased at finding an unexpected guest in his home. "May I ask the reason for this call?"

"A theft from the Royal Academy last night," I said hurriedly before Lestrade could inform him as to the true nature of our interview. "The Inspector was asking whether I had seen anything after I left St James's."

"Did you?"

"No."

Miles summoned a wintry smile. "Then I do not see how my cousin can help you, Inspector Lestrade. If that is all…?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes, I was just going," said he, glancing uneasily in my direction. "Thank you for your time, sir, and for the tea. Most kind."

"Not at all," I said.

With a final nod, he hurried away. Miles shut the door and leaned against it.

"How dare you," he hissed, his eyes dark with fury and his frame quivering with barely-suppressed emotion. "How dare you bring that _man_ into my home!"

To say I was taken aback by this change in him was something of an understatement. That Miles, who cultivated a careful aura of indifference and languor, should take so strongly against my having a visitor seemed out of character. Nor could I imagine what had so perturbed him.

"Whatever do you mean?" I countered.

"You are a guest here, Sherlock, under sufferance at that." His voice had grown high and shrill, and all the more alarming for it. "Where is the respect that I am owed? Or are you so foolish that you blithely entertain strangers unaware of the consequences?"

"I could not refuse the police, Miles."

"No, I suppose you could not." He released a troubled breath and a little of the ire went out of him. "Forgive me. I am a little out of sorts at the moment." He pulled his coat from his shoulders and fairly fell onto the sofa, rubbing a hand over his eyes in a tired and dispirited manner. "Would you get me a drink?"

I poured him a brandy. By the time he had finished the glass, a little of the colour had returned to his cheeks and his composure was restored. Finally he cast a lingering look in my direction and surveyed me with eyes at once both sorrowful and deprecating. It placed me in the curious position of feeling guiltily exposed before I even knew what had caused his outburst.

"I have received the worst possible news concerning a dear friend," said he heavily. "You remember Theodore Fairfax? You met him last night at the ball."

At the mention of his name, a cold thrill of dread took hold on my insides. I had imagined Fairfax and Miles conspiring against my best laid plans, but to hear my cousin speak of him in such terms could only mean a tragedy had occurred.

"Yes, I remember him," I said with some difficulty. "What has happened?"

"The worst of it is that I had his money," Miles murmured. "If only he had had faith and waited. What is a thousand pounds compared to the life of a man?"

"Miles," I said more forcefully. "Tell me."

He shuddered and closed his eyes. "Theo is dead, Sherlock. They pulled his body out of the Thames a few hours ago."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Twelve!**_


	13. Chapter Twelve

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Twelve: A Timely Intervention**

I spent the next two days alternating between the bed, in those hours when I knew I should sleep, and the armchair, when I knew I could not. I might have kept this up for the rest of the week but for a timely interruption into my den of self-appointed misery.

Inspector Lestrade, in the guise of acquaintance, enemy, critic, ally – I could no longer trust myself to know for certain – was unimpressed by my still being in my dressing gown at midday. I had held him at bay on the threshold of my domain for as long as possible until the creak of floorboards on the stairs below told me that we were attracting undue attention in the shape of my formidable and unforgiving landlady, who had a tendency to evict first and ask questions later. Since admitting him was likely to cause less speculation than conducting our interview in public, I relented and grudgingly stepped aside to allow Lestrade to enter.

The place was comfortably untidy to my mind, less so to my visitor who cast a critical eye over the liberal coating of newspapers that littered the floor, the tower of books by the window, toppled some days ago and still not righted, the clothes I had left over the back of the armchair and the general medley of accumulated effects that a person is wont to gather in the course of twenty-four years. When his gaze turned to me, I gathered that he was waiting for an invitation to sit down. Since I had no particular wish for his company and because there was not a chair to be had that would not involving the removal of items to another place about the room, I made no move to make him feel particularly welcome.

My refusal to play the genial host led him to the natural, if erroneous, conclusion.

"Are you ill?" he wanted to know.

"No," I stated, not feeling particularly inclined to enlighten him as to my reasons.

"I see," said he. His tone was that which all policemen eventually master, censorious, judgemental and with the merest hint that arrest may soon follow if the answers received in connection with their inquiries are not satisfactory. "It's all right for some," he went on. "I was up at five o'clock this morning."

"Admirable," I returned. "But you did not come halfway across London to tell me of your domestic arrangements. What is it you want, Inspector?"

To my annoyance, he took it upon himself to clear a space on a particularly battered chair whose springs had escaped the lining beneath some months before, and was currently playing host to a box of books rescued from the dustbin of a bankrupt bookseller from Goodge Street, several thumbed copies of the _Illustrated Police News_, a collection of yet to be washed retorts, one broken pipette, three collars and a towel that had never been out of my sight and which I was saving in case I ever felt inclined to re-enter the world of men clean and refreshed. Unbidden, Lestrade perched himself on the arm, making it creak and bend, thus causing the _Police News_ to cascade into an unorganised heap onto the floor. We watched them fall and, when the dust had settled, Lestrade cleared his throat and made what I presumed to be an attempt at humour.

"And the wife calls me untidy," he said with a grunt of laughter. "She should see this place."

"Inspector—"

"Oh, don't mind me, Mr Holmes. It's been one of those days that started off well, when the father-in-law's ferret ran out in the road and got run over, and has continued in the same vein ever since. You may have heard that Inspector Gregson made an arrest yesterday." The gleam in his eye told me that it had proved to be less than propitious. "Have you ever heard of old Charlie Makepeace?"

"He had a career stealing jewels until his arrest in Southampton, as I recall."

Lestrade nodded. "His sons took over the 'family business' as it were. Well, Gregson had the whole brood arrested last night on the word of some local villain – only it turns out that the boys were detained at Her Majesty's pleasure at East Ham on Friday on a charge of being drunk and disorderly, and their father has been laid up for the last three weeks with a broken leg." His grin widened. "He's having to eat humble pie today, I can tell you."

"Is that what you came to tell me?"

"Partly," said he, rubbing his chin in the self-satisfied manner of a man with yet more to tell and in no particular hurry to impart it. "You see, Mr Holmes, there's been a development in the investigation. I called round to your cousin's place in Mayfair hoping to inform you of it, but that Algernon character said you hadn't been there since Saturday. Not had a falling out, I hope?"

It was far worse, not that I could admit the truth of the matter to Lestrade.

A crushing sense of guilt had driven me from my cousin's room that afternoon. It had kept me away ever since. Miles had been devastated by the senselessness of Fairfax's death, so much so that it had become impossible for me to stay and bear witness to his sorrow. The courage I had lacked to tell him at the time that I had spoken to Fairfax that morning evaded me still. I could not face him and confess my part in the wretched man's demise. He would have had every right to blame me, for I most certainly did myself.

From what little I had been able to learn, Fairfax had gone from our meeting to Westminster, where he had been observed by a child descending the steps to the foreshore. There, he had gathered up stones, which he piled into his pockets, and then had waded out into the Thames until he had vanished beneath the waters, whereupon the alarm had been raised. By the time they found him, it was too late for him and too late for me to undo the harm I had done.

Distance and solitude had given me time to think over the last few days. When a man blunders so grievously and by his actions brings about the death of another, he must inevitably fall to questioning his judgement. Since my profession demanded that mine was sound and above reproach, the ramifications were severe.

Try as I might to tell myself that a blackmailer's greed alone had driven Fairfax to such desperate measures, I knew that I was deceiving myself. I had wavered that day, swayed by excessive vanity into arrogance, and thus had been loosed upon the populace of Mayfair with the same blithe ignorance as a child playing soldiers with a loaded pistol.

I had seen only how I could benefit from another man's misfortune and had dismissed his fears as unimportant. The hope that Miles had given him I had destroyed when I had told him that he would never be free of the hold another man had over him. That despair had my stamp upon it, however unwittingly bestowed. When I had spoken of ending his torment, I had meant by bringing the blackmailer to justice. Fairfax had understood another meaning. To some extent, therefore, the responsibility for his unhappy death lay with me.

My doubts too had had time to fester. I saw no means of breaking the hold of a blackmailer whose victims would rather embrace death than risk his wrath and exposure. I was at the point of forsaking my fledgling career and taking up Mycroft's offer of a pedestrian existence in a faceless government department, where I could cause no offence. To have caused a death was unforgivable; to continue to plough a course where I could so again was nothing short of reckless.

Fairfax had the paid the price for my lapse in judgement with his life; Providence had yet to decide my fate.

That it should descend in the unlikely form of an early-rising, ferret-bereaved, over-worked, slightly down-at-heel Scotland Yard Detective Inspector of Police was not something I had not anticipated. With hindsight, I am glad Lestrade came that day; if not for his intervention, I do not like to think of the direction my life might have taken.

At the time, however, I was ignorant of the service he was doing me; instead, I was less than pleased by his continued presence, not that he seemed to be aware of my growing impatience.

"The reason I've called," he went on leisurely, "is because there's someone I want you to meet. What I've learnt sheds new light on the case."

"_Your _case," I reminded him coldly. His attempt at shrouding the name in mystery was unnecessary, since reason dictated that there was only person to whom he could be referring. "Whatever Mrs Farintosh had to tell you, Inspector, I am not interested."

"My case, as you say," said he, eyeing me thoughtfully. "However, I really do think you should hear the lady out, whether you're interested or not. After all, it's not every day that a man has the satisfaction of being proved right." With that, he rose and the chair groaned back into its usual state of dilapidation. "Well, I'll see you in an hour at the usual place. Until then, Mr Holmes."

The usual place was a tearoom at Charing Cross station, which, although lacking in decent coffee and edible sandwiches, had the advantage of being innocuous enough for a meeting place without attracting undue attention. Time wasted whilst I fumed over what seemed to me to be Lestrade's high-handed assumption that I had nothing better to do with my afternoon – when I finally acknowledged that he was correct on that count, I realised that I had to make some attempt to justify my existence beyond my four walls – had conspired to make me ten minutes late. I was still earlier than the Inspector and his expected guest, who arrived apologising profusely for her tardiness as a result of the late running of the Croydon train.

Mrs Farintosh, aged then about thirty-five with rose-petal lips, straw-coloured hair and rather obvious charms, appeared at first glance to be one of those twittering, annoying women, given to snivelling and dabbing at her eyes whenever she thought she was losing our sympathy. Rather I should say, losing _my_ sympathy, in which case her theatrics were wasted, but so not on Lestrade, who to my mind was showing rather too much by way of understanding. After enduring another of his kindly reassurances that we would do all we could to help her, I gave him a kick under the table to bring him back to his senses.

"But what am I to do?" she lamented, accepting Lestrade's offer of a dry handkerchief and applying it delicately to the sides of her eyes. "I fear it is all my fault."

"Yes, it is," I agreed. "It was foolish of you to imagine that the affair would not come to light."

Her eyes widened, though whether in alarm or in surprise at the bluntness of my remark I could not say, not being so well-versed in the devices of womankind to say for certain.

"Very well then," said she, casting a glance at her gallant protector, who was bestowing upon her a doe-eyed looked of concern, "since you already know, I see that I must throw myself upon your mercy."

She twisted the handkerchief nearly to nothing in her hands, took a deep breath and presented an admirable display of steeling herself.

"I met my husband, the late Colonel Farintosh, in India. I had travelled out to marry my fiancé, but on arrival I was informed he had died unexpectedly. The Colonel was a regular visitor at the Roylotts' home, with whom I was staying until passage back home could be arranged, and in the manner of these things we formed an attachment. He was older than me and he already had two grown children, who made no attempt to disguise their misgivings at our match. However, I loved my husband – truly, you must believe me on that point, gentlemen."

"We do, Mrs Farintosh," said Lestrade.

"When he died three years ago, he left the bulk of his estate to his children – as was right and proper – and to me an annuity and care of the opal tiara said to have belonged to Anne of Bohemia. On my death or remarriage, it was to have passed back to the family. But," she added, lowering her eyes, "as generous as the annuity was, I had debts."

"Gambling debts?" I suggested.

"Yes, but not mine. Colonel Farintosh enjoyed an afternoon at the races, as many gentlemen are wont to do. His judgement, however, was not always sound in his choice of bets."

"Why did you not ask his children for the money?"

"Mr Holmes, I could not! It would have broken their dear hearts. They held their poor father in such high regard and not one breath of scandal had ever touched his noble name whilst he was alive. For all their coldness towards me, I could not see them suffer so nor allow disgrace to fall upon my husband."

"In other words, they would not have believed you."

The mask slipped for the briefest of moments and a hard gleam came to her eyes. This simmering, sobbing woman had resolve beneath that frivolous exterior, after all.

"Perhaps that was also a consideration, yes," she admitted. "His children resent me even my small annuity. I have no money of my own, Mr Holmes. If they succeed in wresting that from me, I shall be penniless and homeless. Had I told them of their father's debts, they would have denied it. They would have had support too, for the Colonel kept his interests in the turf from all but me. All I had was the word of a bookmaker. Under those circumstances, who do you think would have been believed?"

"So you bore the Colonel's debts alone?"

She nodded. "I had not the money to hand, so I took out a loan against the tiara and had a copy made, in case the family wished to inspect it at any time, as was their right. It was my intention to repay the loan and the interest as soon as I was able. By the end of next year, I would have been able to redeem it. But then came this exhibition at the Royal Academy. The family were all for the tiara being exhibited, but I knew that once it was inspected, it would be found to be a fake."

"And naturally you would have been exposed."

"The family would have been merciless. I could not risk discovery. I delayed as much as I could until suspicions began to be raised. When Charles – that is, Mr Rodney-Ware – came to collect it, I'm afraid I quite broke down. The dear man was so very understanding. He said he would not tell the family and that that piece would go on display as though it was the original. He also suggested…" The breath caught in her throat and she gave a delicate cough. "He suggested a solution to my problem."

Lestrade sat back in his chair until it creaked and set his mouth in a scowl of disapproval. "You wait till you hear this," said he.

"Mr Rodney-Ware said that the tiara could be made to disappear," Mrs Farintosh continued. "He said that items did occasionally go missing during the upheaval of transport. As the tiara was to be insured along with all the items at the exhibition, if it was lost, the compensation would be handsome." She bowed her head and sniffed heavily. "I'll not deny that the money would have solved all my problems. I know it was wrong, but Mr Rodney-Ware was so kind and it seemed the only way."

"A most obliging man," I noted. "I assume he was not entirely altruistic?"

She met my gaze with a calm, level stare. "We had an understanding, Mr Holmes, if that is what you mean."

"Who else knew about this arrangement?"

"No one."

"_Someone _knew, Mrs Farintosh. That is why the tiara was taken."

"It was not Charles who took it?"

"No. It was someone who wishes to expose you, madam. You should prepare yourself for that eventuality."

"Yes, Mr Holmes," she said. "I have considered it. Now I see that I must – if you cannot help me."

I had unsettling sense of having had this conversation before. Mrs Farintosh had a stronger heart than the unhappy Theodore Fairfax, but it was disconcerting to hear her speak the self-same words that had been the verbal echo of his desperate, final decision.

I did not fear for the lady's safety – perhaps unwisely, given my propensity for underestimating the depths of despair to which a weakened soul may sink – for it seemed to me that Mrs Farintosh was well capable of charming her way out of any situation, however unfavourable. Certainly she had won over Lestrade by those subtle arts against which the average man is inadequately protected, and no doubt Rodney-Ware could tell a similar story.

As unmoved and undeceived as I was by this pretence, I was in no position to take the moral high-ground, given my own sins of late. Whatever the criminal implications of her actions, I could not justify the behaviour of a thief who tormented his victims with the fear of exposure. Moreover, she had obliged me by confirming that my reasoning for the theft of the tiara had been correct. Now she looked to me to reciprocate in kind. If I was unable to treat my clients any differently than in that same manner with which I had dealt with Fairfax, then there was as little hope for me as for Mrs Farintosh.

"However," I began, "I see no reason why it should come to that. The stolen tiara has yet to make a reappearance. Therefore, we must capitalise on the thief's delay and make a pre-emptive strike before he does." I drew a deep breath and wondered briefly what Lestrade would make of my solution. "The answer to your problem is really quite simple. You have the real opal tiara. All you have to do is to repay the loan and redeem it."

"But I cannot," said she. "I still owe a little over three hundred pounds."

"Could not a friend be persuaded to lend you the sum? Mr Rodney-Ware, for example. Perhaps you should remind him of your 'understanding'. That might encourage him to make a donation to your cause."

Lestrade began to shift uneasily in his chair, but Mrs Farintosh showed no signs of embarrassment. For my small service, I was rewarded with her first genuine smile of the day.

"You are a clever man," said she, nodding thoughtfully. "I _shall_ do as you suggest. Nor shall I forget the kindness you have shown me this day in my hour of sore need. Thank you, Mr Holmes. You have restored my faith."

I could have replied that the feeling was mutual. Instead, with our interview at an end, we parted, Mrs Farintosh away to set her plans into action, leaving me to face the disapproval of a somewhat disgruntled Inspector Lestrade.

"If anyone asks," said he, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear any of that. I'm not altogether happy with this idea of turning a blind eye. Rodney-Ware was conspiring to defraud the insurance company and implicate Mrs Farintosh into the bargain. That's a felony in anyone's book."

"If you arrest Rodney-Ware, he will certainly name Mrs Farintosh as his accomplice, and the result will be the same as if the thief had revealed that the tiara was a forgery. This way, Mrs Farintosh does not suffer." I smiled. "Although I cannot say the same for Mr Rodney-Ware."

"Serves him right," said Lestrade. He released a long sigh and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "Well, I suppose no real harm has been done. I should have liked to have arrested that scoundrel though. Taking advantage of a nice little woman like that, it's criminal."

His assessment of the lady was rather amusing. "Do not trouble yourself too much, Lestrade. I'm sure Mrs Farintosh is more than capable of turning the situation to her advantage."

"What of our thief – that's supposing that Rodney-Ware _isn't_ the thief? He still seems like a good candidate to me."

I shook my head. "As he told Mrs Farintosh, there were easier ways of stealing the items under his care than going to the effort of manufacturing a burglary. No, the thief is still out there. It is indicative that on this occasion he has broken with his usual routine."

"His delay, you mean, in exposing the tiara as a fake."

"Yes. That begs the question, why? Does he know the lady? Is he sympathetic to her plight?"

"I should ask her about her friends then," said Lestrade, opening his notebook and licking the end of his blunted pencil.

"You might include on that list the bank manager who arranged the loan and the jeweller who created the duplicate tiara. I do not say they were directly involved, but they may have mentioned it to someone who was."

"I'll let you know what I discover." He snapped the book shut and glanced up at me. "That is, if you're interested?"

I nodded.

"And where will you be, Mr Holmes, if I should need to find you?"

"My cousin's rooms. There is something requiring my attention that I have neglected for too long."

"Sounds like unfinished business to me," said Lestrade with a chuckle.

"Yes, Inspector," I replied. "That is _exactly_ what it is."

* * *

_**Oo-er! Look out, Ricoletti. Mr Holmes is coming to get you! (And yes, it was **_that_** Mrs Farintosh who had honourable mention in SPEC).**_

_**Continued in Chapter Thirteen!**_


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Thirteen: Concerning the Demise of Theodore Fairfax**

Miles was at home when I called, and I found him stretched out on the sofa, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. I was not so familiar with his habits to know whether this was his usual Tuesday afternoon occupation, although I did not discount that his apparent state of enervation had its roots in recent events, as did his sombre turn of dress.

Colourful Miles, more at home in burgundy velvets and purple silks, was now clad in uniform black, which had the result of stripping him of something of his character. But for the exquisite cut of the tailoring, he could have easily been mistaken by the average man in the street as a slightly disrespectable bank clerk who was long overdue for a haircut.

Shawn of his finery, he looked ordinary, which I supposed he was, for all my distaste for his way of life. Ordinary enough to feel the loss of a dear friend, and extra-ordinary if he did not hold me at least partly responsible for it. Because of that, I had decided not to tell him.

It was not cowardice on my part, but practicality. I needed his assistance and telling him that I had seen Fairfax shortly before his death would not render him in an amiable frame of mind. I saw it not as a lie, but rather as an omission. When this business was at an end, when the blackmailer had been brought to justice, when no more lives would end in the grey roiling waters of the Thames as a result of his greed, then I would tell him and take the consequences.

For the time being, I judged it better that Miles remain in a state of felicitous ignorance – enlightenment I have found never produces quite the same effect – although I could have wished for a less warm reception and his evident pleasure at seeing me.

"Sherlock," said he, gesturing me a cushion-filled chair. "Wherever have you been? I wondered what became of you."

"I have had matters of my own to attend to, Miles," I replied carefully.

He essayed a smile. "Come now, my dear boy, that is the polite way of saying you were embarrassed. I fear I took the news of poor Theo's death rather to heart the other afternoon. I am not usually so affected. It is not every day, however, that one is called upon to identify the body a friend."

The bold light that I was accustomed to seeing in his eyes faltered. "Those who romanticise the peaceful sleep of the dead have never seen the reality for themselves. The dead are not beautiful; only the living are. Poor Theo. He was little more than a boy, really. A foolish, _foolish_ boy."

I watched him toss his spent cigarette into the grate, and wondered how I had the gall to sit and listen to genuine grief one moment and still demand his help the next.

"Miles, I am sorry," I said finally.

He shook his head. "I dare say you are, Sherlock, but I have had my fill of platitudes these last few days. Heaven knows I've had invoke enough of them myself. Condolences to his fiancée, consolation to his grieving mother, sympathy for his bereaved siblings." He sighed. "And now you sit there and tell me that you are sorry, you who knew him but for a moment."

"Every death is a cause for sorrow, whether the person is known to us or not."

"You sound like my wretched brother," he sighed. "If you intend to go pious on me, cousin, I shall have you turned out into the street. In which case spare me your philosophy and commiserations. Well, Theo is dead and past caring about yours or anyone else's sympathy. As for me, let us say that I am disappointed. I do not like to lose."

"Because he was a friend?"

"I do not like to lose in _any_ situation," he corrected me crisply. "Death has a way of being inconvenient in that respect. But for the child's testimony, we could have passed off Fairfax's death off as an accident at the inquest today."

"What of the stones in his pockets?"

"For his collection?" he replied with a light shrug. "He was a collector of interesting flotsam and jetsam, perhaps. Details, Sherlock – are they so very important? I would have said anything to have spared his family the verdict of suicide. Under the circumstances, what else could the coroner record?" He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass. "No one understands the reason for what he did. He left no note, only many unanswered questions."

"But you know," I said. "You should tell the police."

A laugh escaped him. "My dear Sherlock, now you surely jest."

"I do not. You have the means to bring a blackmailer to justice, the man who drove your friend to his death. Do you not care?"

"Yes, I care," he said sharply, sitting up. "At the same time, I hold each man responsible for his own actions. The blackmailer wanted money from Theo, not his life. What worth is that to any, save the man himself? No, what killed Theo was guilt, not some paltry demand for money. The truth of the matter is that he could not live with the thought of what he had done."

I was experiencing a strange sense of being torn between chagrin that Miles was not prepared to speak out on Fairfax's behalf and in so doing end the misery of many others like him, and relief that when at last I came to make my confession that I would not be roundly condemned. My conscience eased a little, but not so my curiosity.

"What had he done?" I asked.

Miles made a long arm and took up another cigarette. "He killed someone."

I stared at him for a full minute, silenced into disbelief. I had imagined some petty misdemeanour, an exchange of letters perhaps or a wife married in secret in some far off parts, but never murder.

"Fairfax killed a man?" I echoed, finding my voice. "Who?"

"Some fellow in a disreputable Limehouse opium den, by all accounts. Theo assured me it was an accident. He said he remembered a dream in which he was attacked by a scarlet serpent and he triumphed only by choking the life out of the monster. Some days later he was informed that it had been no demon of his drug-fuelled imaginings, but a man come to replenish his pipe."

"And you were prepared to conceal his crime?"

Miles sighed theatrically. "My dear boy, what were we supposed to do? We had only the proprietor's word for it and he—"

"The proprietor?" I interjected. "_He_ was the blackmailer? Not Ricoletti?"

Miles laughed throatily. "Whatever are you talking about? Do you think I would have gone to so much trouble on Theo's behalf on the word of a mange-hound like Ricoletti? You seem to have that man the brain."

Perhaps too much, I had to concede. I had convinced myself that the palmist was behind Fairfax's torment to the exclusion of all others. What I had thought was guilty confirmation when he had started at the mention of the man's name was no more than panic, in thinking that his secret was as plain for all to read as the lines of his hand. We had indeed both erred that day.

"Mind you, I do understand your preoccupation with the fellow," Miles said, gently prompting me back to the present. "I was led to believe that the reading he gave you was not good."

"It was not what I expected."

Miles raised his brows. "You expected to be told that you would live forever? Arrogant little puppy, aren't you? I do wonder, however, whether there is any point in our continuing with your education. If you are to be drowned like a lazy sewer rat in the very near future, then my expending energy on your behalf is futile." He gave me a challenging look. "You know, when they first told me that a man had been hauled from the Thames, I thought it was you."

"Rather me than Fairfax?"

"Perhaps. Oh, do not take it personally. A man is judged less by his family than the company he keeps. Have I thrived because I have wantwits for brothers and a mopish sister as my siblings? Indeed no. For that I am pitied, not condemned. If I choose to associate with others of a less eccentric bent, then that is a reflection of my good taste."

"By others, you mean murderers?"

He seemed unperturbed by my retort. "That is the chance we take when we exercise our judgement in our choice of friends. Every man should try it once – even you, Sherlock. A friend is… well, to use a crude analogy, as is pepper to a steak. One could survive without it, but it makes one's meal infinitely more interesting." He smiled. "In any case, I severely doubt that Theo was a murderer. He had his vices – any man worth knowing does – but to kill a man, even in the grip of delusion?" He shook his head. "Theo had a gentle, if troubled soul. I would no more believe that he had taken another's life than…" He searched for a comparable subject. "Well, than you would, cousin."

I had a fleeting moment of concern that his statement carried barbs intended to convey to me the certainty of his knowledge of my part in the affair. His eyes carried no gleam of spite, however, and I allowed myself to breath again.

"And as I said," he went on, "we had only the proprietor's word that murder had been done. He said the body had been disposed of – he did not elaborate and Theo did not ask – and demanded the sum of a thousand pounds to keep what he knew from the police. That convinced me of the falsity of his claim. Had I known of such a deed, I would not have settled for anything less than ten times that amount."

"Despite that, you were prepared to pay. You must have had some reservations."

"My concern was for Theo. His star was rising and he was about to be married. We are all assured that we are innocent until proven guilty by a jury of our peers, but people these days are quick to judge and slow to revise their opinions. I heard some appalling expression that expressed it better. What was it? Ah, yes. Mud sticks." He grimaced. "I abhor this trend of debasing the language with clichés and _bon mots_, but in this case the sentiment is true. Guilty or not, Theo would have suffered by this accusation for many years to come."

"Why did you not confide your doubts to Fairfax?"

"Oh, I did, Sherlock. But by that time he had convinced himself that he had done murder. My guess is that the proprietor heard him mumbling about his fight with the serpent and sought to make capital from it."

"All the more reason why you should now expose him for the criminal he is. He has undoubtedly done this before. You have the opportunity to prevent him from blackmailing anyone else."

Miles sniffed and considered. "I could," said he, "but who would take my word over that of an inspector of police?" He met my baffled gaze with mild amusement. "Didn't I tell you? This den of his is one of his 'other' interests, a profitable sideline if you will. Why do you think I started that afternoon I found you here in conversation with that rat-faced detective? I thought the fellow had had the gall to come to my home. I see now that I was less than the accommodating host that convention demands. Do pass on my apologies for my behaviour to your 'friend'."

"He is not my friend," I retorted. "Why would you think that?"

"If I offered tea to every rogue and scoundrel who came calling at my door to ask questions, I would be very soon out of pocket. No," he said thoughtfully, "you were _too_ comfortable in each other's presence. I dread to think that you would mix with such a person in any social setting; therefore your conversation was of a professional nature. Since his business is crime, I have to assume that you are either a perpetrator or, heaven help us, a collaborator. Well, Sherlock, what is it to be? Do you have some hidden criminal past?"

"No."

"A shame. It would have given you a veneer of interest. You assist him then?"

"Our paths have crossed in the past."

Miles smiled wryly, and I gathered that he was not wholly satisfied with this explanation. He did not, however, press the issue. "Well, if I were you, I would keep this 'association' a secret. Nothing is more fatal to amiable conversation than an admission that a fellow's trade is either as a policeman or an undertaker. After that, one can never quite shake the impression that one is either being suspected of some crime or measured up for a coffin. On the whole," said he, "I think I preferred you when I thought you were mad."

"You would not be prepared to help me then?"

"Good gracious, whatever do you take me for?" He stabbed out his cigarette with actorly indignation. "I have done many things in my life that may be considered reprehensible, but there are things at which even I draw the line. Helping the police is one of them one. If they can't help themselves, then that's their problem, not mine."

"Even to telling me the name of the inspector who blackmailed Theo?"

"I do not know his name."

"The name of his establishment then?"

"Why?"

"Because if you will do nothing to curtail his activities, then I shall. My fri—acquaintance at Scotland Yard will deal with him. You need not be involved."

Miles thought hard for a moment. "The Golden Dragon, Lower Duke's Court."

"Thank you."

"Now I think you should go and do whatever is it is you do, Sherlock. This interrogation has made me feel quite fatigued… and somehow unsettled."

I gathered my things and rose. "Oh, there is one more thing, Miles." He glanced up at me, his face a picture of consternation. "Madame de Mont St Jean – I wish to see her."

He sprang to his feet with an energy I should have thought him incapable and came to stand uncomfortably close, so much so that I could detect the odour of the whisky on his breath and the slight scent of his hair cream. "That is probably the most interesting thing you have said yet," he remarked. "_Why_ do you wish to see Célestine?"

"That is my business."

"No, Sherlock, it is mine. She is my friend, and friends must protect each other from malign influences."

"Is that what you think I am – a malign influence?"

"I don't know what you are, except that I have already lost one dear friend to whom I introduced you and I do not intend to lose another."

My heartbeat quickened. "Miles, I–"

He held up a hand. "Oh, I do not say that you were to blame. I do say, however, that since you were foisted upon me by your scourge of a brother, my life has deviated from that smooth, uninterrupted course which I have carefully cultivated all these years. You have the innocence of youth, Sherlock, but I am not altogether sure that you not a devil in disguise, sent to cause misrule and havoc."

We were treading dangerous waters. I had the impression that if Miles did not know for certain that I had had a hand in the tragedy surrounding Fairfax, then at the very least he suspected the truth. Because of that, I had not intention of telling him why I really needed to see Madame de Mont St Jean, which had been my reason for visiting him that day. If he knew I meant to get her to tell me the cause of her fear of Ricoletti, he would never willingly help me. I, however, had reasoned that it was the only way if I were ever to make any progress and finally rid myself of the accursed business.

I saw too that Miles was not to be underestimated. He had deduced the connection between Lestrade and myself, and I judged him more than capable of seeing through my thin excuses. Dissembling is an art in itself, although perhaps not an admirable one, but ever useful. In my choice of role as aspiring lover, the truth would have been easier than the fiction I had invented.

"She interests me."

Miles's face flickered with amusement for a moment. "Interests you _how_, Sherlock?"

"She is an intelligent conversationalist."

His expression fell. "Now you are lying to me. Célestine has many attractions but her wit is not one of them and I cannot believe that you have much interest in her preoccupations. Oh, I do not hold it against her. Her education was somewhat lacking, you see. She tells the world she springs from a disinherited scion of minor French nobility, but the truth is that she was dancer, plucked from provincial obscurity by a man who neither appreciated nor deserved her. And, when one night she was complimented on her grace and elegance, her brute of a husband ensured that no man would ever admire her again. He broke both her legs and left her crippled. That he did not break her spirit was the wonder of it, for dancing was her passion, the only thing at which she ever really excelled." He held my gaze for a long moment. "So you see, Sherlock, if I doubt your motives, I do so out of concern for the lady."

"I did not know. What became of the husband? She told me that she had married again, although was not specific as to number."

"He died. A shooting accident." His reply was frank, without emotion. "If Célestine wishes to forget that first attachment, then who can blame her?"

"And her other marriages?"

"A woman of such beauty has her admirers. Like his predecessors, her last husband was old, rich and easily flattered. Now she finds her own beauty waning, she seeks it in others. You would not be the first pretty fellow to catch her eye." He smiled at my discomfort. "I know that she finds you… _fascinating_. I cannot for the life of me see why, but then the humours of women will ever be a delightful mystery to me."

"She told you that?"

Miles nodded. "She said she regretted you had to go so soon the evening of the ball. She also mentioned something about you being asked to leave?"

"A misunderstanding."

"As I thought." His eyes swept over me, and the smile that settled on his features told of a decision reached. He draped himself back on the sofa with a weary sigh and rubbed his tired eyes. "Very well, go to Madame you shall. Only be aware that whatever it is you seek, something must be offered in return." His eyes flashed open and fixed on me. "The question is, Sherlock, what are _you_ prepared to give?"

* * *

_**Deep waters indeed. Tread carefully, Mr Holmes!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Fourteen!**_


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Fourteen: Progress and Proposals**

Madame de Mont St Jean was home when I called – at least she was at home to _me_, which was quite another matter. Whether it was my suspicious nature or my conversation with Miles earlier, I could not shake the impression of a lamb led to slaughter, the lamb in question being me and the slaughterhouse the gaudy surroundings of Madame's drawing-room.

Late afternoon was quite the wrong time to call, but I have ever maintained that the conventions of polite society should never stand in the way of an investigation. If Madame was willing to admit me, then so be it; let the prying eyes of St John's Wood make of it what they would. From what Miles had already told me, I gathered that my visit would raise the usual eyebrows, but otherwise pass as nothing out of the ordinary.

Madame was draped on her velvet sofa when I entered in much the same manner as Miles had been earlier, but with a good deal more grace and with liberal quantities of lace and muslin about her person. The failing light and the kinder glow of the gaslight bestowed upon her features the ageless quality of one of Lely's court beauties, whose moments remain eternal long after the sitter succumbed to dust.

And yet how strange it is that behind all things of beauty lies tragedy.

To look at the lady, one would never imagine that such a fragile creature could have survived the ordeal at the hands of her first husband. Any evidence of the past was denied; but for the fact that I had yet to see her stand, either on the night of the ball or now, I would never have imagined the depths of her suffering. Instead, the face she presented to me and the world at large was of magnificent artifice – and for the lady's sake and my own reasons, it was a pretence in which I was prepared to participate.

I did not demur, therefore, when she invited me to sit at her side, despite knowing that I was placing myself well within her amorous grasp. I imagined Miles had had something like this and more in mind when he had asked me what I was prepared to give, but like him, I had my limits. This small consideration to dignity, however, I could manage.

"Mon chéri Monsieur Holmes," said she, smiling with fulsome delight. "I did not expect to see you so soon. Comment se fait-Miles?"

"He is well, Madame, considering."

The soft lines of a theatrical frown gently creased her forehead. "He took the death of his poor friend very badly, I fear. Never have I seen him look so ill. Mon pauvre Miles, I thought he would faint away last night. Is he eating?"

"I cannot say, Madame. I have been away for a few days."

She smiled provocatively. "You are a mystery, Monsieur, and j'aime me perdre dans un mystère."

"Sir Thomas Browne," I said, recognising the allusion. "'I love to lose myself in a mystery, to pursue my Reason…'." Considering what Miles had said of the lady's background, I was somewhat taken aback that she was cognisant with the writings of an obscure sixteenth-century writer and physician. "Unusual reading material, Madame."

"I do not read, I listen," said she primly. "Miles, he comes to me when he is lonely to…" A faint blush touched her cheeks. "He comes to read to me. He has une belle voix, deep and rich. A voice like that was made to whisper words of love, but of late he talks only of death. Son pauvre ami, he is on his mind."

Quite what surprised me the most about that statement, I could not say, whether the implausibility of Miles stirring himself from his stupor to visit anyone simply to read to them or that he would choose the works of Thomas Browne to do so. Sensational literature I would have thought more in his line, or if he delved into the past at all, the sonnets of Shakespeare and Spenser would have provided better material for his wooing than dry philosophy.

"Your cousin is a connoisseur, Monsieur," said she when I put this to her. "He understands beauty. He has many beautiful books in his collection. He wishes to teach me, but I am a poor pupil." Her eyes took a distant aspect. "Last night, he spoke of many things beyond my understanding. He spoke of life as the shadow of death and the sun as a dark… quelque chose, je ne sais pas quoi—"

" 'The sun itself is but the dark _simulacrum_, and light but the shadow of God'," I finished for her.

"Oui, bien sûr, that is the word. Miles, he was so wrapt up in the reading, he would not stop to tell me what he meant."

"It refers to an image or representation, or an unreal or false pretence of something. For instance, someone masquerading as something they are not." I paused. "Like Signor Ricoletti."

She recoiled. "Why do you mention that hateful man's name?"

"Because he pretended to be your friend, did he not, and proved to be something quite different?"

"Il est le Diable! He is evil. You can see it in his eyes. Small, comme un cochon. He says wicked things, Monsieur."

"I believe you. Would you tell me what those 'wicked things' were?"

"Non." She drew nearer, all smiles and delicate touches, as light as a butterfly and dangerous as a scorpion. "Let us talk of other things. Let us talk of _you_. You are like Miles, très beau," said she, running her fingers down my cheek. "Your voice pleases me. Read to me, but do not talk of death. Talk of love."

Compelling as she was, I was immune to her charms. "I am not Miles," I said, removing her hand gently from my knee. "And I did not come here to woo you with flattery and false words, Madame."

Suspicion clouded her dark eyes. "Then why?"

"Because I need your help to bring to justice one who has caused you great pain."

"You speak again of Ricoletti. Monsieur, what you ask, je ne peux pas. You are young and innocence, you do not know him, you do not know what he can do."

Like Mrs Farintosh before her, the lady sought refuge in tears. As then, I was unmoved, even when she fell upon my shoulder, crying bitterly and wetting my coat with her weeping. I had been taught from an early age that only a cad makes a woman cry, but I sensed that this display was little more than another of her masquerades, intended to divert me from my purpose. With that thought in mind, I did not offer her the comfort of my arms which she sought and waited until she had composed herself before passing her my handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, glancing at me from time to time as she did so, confused by my indifferent response.

"What are you, Monsieur Holmes, that you interest yourself in this man's affairs?"

"I am a concerned citizen, prompted to speak out on behalf of a young man who is dead because of what Ricoletti told him in one of his 'predictions'."

"Who was cet homme?"

I had been sworn to secrecy, by the Prime Minister no less, over the details of his nephew-in-law's unhappy demise. To tell Madame would be to break that trust, but I saw too that it might help to bring her to my side if she knew that she had not been alone in her suffering at the hands of this man.

"The Honourable Arthur Bassett," I told her. "He—"

I did not have the chance to finish, for the lady let out a great sob and covered her face with her hands. "It cannot be," she cried. "Dire qu'il ne lui dites pas!"

She was on the brink of hysteria and I had to grasp her firmly by the shoulders to make her look at me. "Madame, what do you know of this?"

"Mon pauvre Arthur," she sobbed. "He was so young, so innocent. He killed himself because of me!"

I stared at her. "He killed himself because of what Ricoletti told him."

She shook her head. "He loved me, Monsieur. I broke his noble heart." She pulled away from me and stared disconsolately at the floor. "You ask me why I hate Ricoletti? Since you know, I shall tell you all. Arthur, he was young and beautiful and, oui, perhaps foolish. Yet we loved. I adored him. I would have done anything for him. He spoke of marriage, although his family disapproved."

"Because you were older than he was?"

A defiant light came to her reddened eyes. "What did they know of passion? Age meant nothing to us. Mais he was concerned, he said we should have our palms read to see if all would be well for us. I saw no harm it in, mere childish entertainment. Then Ricoletti – that devil! – he came to me and said that there was murder written in my palm and that he would tell Arthur…" She began to weep again. "He said he would tell him that he would die, that I would be a widow again within the year. If I did not pay him, he would tell."

It was as I had suspected from the first. A deceptively simple crime, as the most successful usually are. The victim, threatened by the revelation of some spurious future deed which they could not refute, was compelled to pay to save their reputation. In the best of bluffs, there is often an element of truth. With the lady's past history, a rumour like that would well raise doubts and might even lead to questions being asked about the death of her first husband. The ramifications were dire.

"How much did he ask?"

"Five thousand pounds."

"Did you pay?"

She stiffened. "Oui. What else could I do?"

"When was this?"

"Three months ago."

Yet it had been only a fortnight since Bassett had taken a gun to his head and not for the reason Madame had stated.

"I am not a fool, Monsieur," she went on. "Such men are never satisfied. I had bought his silence, but for how long I did not know. It seemed better to me to break off the engagement before Ricoletti should come to me again with his demands and his threats to tell Arthur such things of me. I loved him. I sought only to save him. He would not have understood. When I told him, Arthur… he was devastated. He begged me to reconsider. He told me I had broken his heart." Tears were again beading in her eyes. "A month ago, his family found him a match of which they approved, a pale sickly girl, the daughter of an earl. They were engaged, but he did not love her. He wrote to me and told me that he could not live with such torment. That is why he is dead, for love of me. I have killed him!"

When she turned to me for comfort a second time, I did not refuse her. I held her until the tears ceased to flow and her body stopped shaking. When she looked up at me, beautiful in her grief, her eyes held some great yearning that was terrifying to behold. I could give her something of greater value, however, than the few empty kisses she craved.

"You were not responsible," I told her gently. "Bassett killed himself because Ricoletti tried to blackmail him as he did you. He told him that one day he could commit treason. That is torment of which he spoke, Madame, not your rejection."

"I do not believe you."

"He left a note. His family did not want a scandal."

She blinked back her tears. "Then it is true. Mon pauvre petit garcon, Ricoletti killed him with his lies. Thank you for telling me the truth, Monsieur. Your secret is safe with me."

"As is yours."

"What will you do?"

I had already decided on a course of action that would preserve the lady's reputation whilst ensuring that Ricoletti would fall by his own avarice. After my experience with Fairfax, I saw that if anyone was to take the risk in this enterprise, it would have to be me.

"I shall expose Ricoletti for the fraud and coward he is, Madame. Whether I can bring him to account for Bassett's death is another matter. It may be," I added, "that if I succeed, you may find yourself the subject of speculation."

She smiled. "I am no stranger to such things. But London it does not interest me as once it does. Miles has been kind, but I am alone. It is not good that I am so. I had decided to leave for Paris in the spring. Perhaps I shall leave sooner."

"Perhaps it is for the best."

As I rose, her face fell. "Will you not stay, Monsieur?"

I had anticipated that I might be expected to take my cousin's place to a greater degree than I had had on the night of ball. In sending me, Miles had given his tacit approval to the liaison. But there had been regret in his actions and he had been at pains to remark that I was not the first nor likely to be the last. It made me wonder how he had felt about Madame's affection for Bassett. I doubted he would have been very disappointed when the engagement was broken off and had been on hand to offer his consolation. In his absence, I was offered as nothing more than an entertaining diversion, certainly not seen as a threat to the continued security of the evenings he spent with the lady.

But I am no diversion nor anyone's entertainment, however pleasant the company. What I had been prepared to give was my word, but no more. I was not Miles.

So it was that I left her to her to the solitude she so despised and went instead to Kensington, to the residence of Lady Agnes Markham. As sober in dress as her home was in decoration, the contrast between the two women could not have been more marked. Where Madame clung to beauty, Lady Agnes endeavoured to cling to a life that was ever more wracked with daily suffering. Her companion, Jane, as sour-faced as ever, was less than pleased to see me, although her scowl told me that she had been overridden by her mistress, whose iron will remained undiminished.

Straight-backed, resolute and as frail as a cobweb, Lady Agnes listened with a grave expression as I told her what I had learned of Ricoletti and his methods.

"That I have been so wrong grieves me," said she. "Mr Holmes, I am indebted to you. Ricoletti must now be exposed for the vile creature he is."

"But as you correctly surmised, Lady Agnes, no one will speak out against him. Such is his hold. People fear him."

"Two thousand years ago," said she stiffly, "mankind used to foretell the future by examining the innards of sacrificed creatures. Now we seek enlightenment from men like this. I do not say we have come very far in all that time." The gleam that came to her eyes told me that she was not as despondent about the situation as her words suggested. "You have a plan, Mr Holmes?"

"I have an idea."

She smiled. "And you need my help. That is why you have come to me. Very well. Tell me what it is."

"Before I do, I should warn you that there may be some risk, although it should be largely to myself."

She regarded me with sardonic amusement. "Young man," said she peremptorily, "I have not lived this long to be entirely ignorant that life carries a good many risks and dangers. Do you imagine that I am afraid of anything any more, when death shadows my every waking hour?"

"All the same—"

"One last adventure, Mr Holmes, and the greatest mystery to follow. I should rest easy in my grave knowing that Ricoletti has been brought to account for his crimes. Now, tell me – what do you propose?"

I had given it much consideration and still it seemed absurd. It did, however, fit the pattern that Ricoletti preferred in presenting him with a victim with much to gain and a great deal to lose, as Madame de Mont St Jean had been with her youthful fiancée and Bassett with the slur cast against his family's honour. I had trap to bait, and in pursuit of that aim, I was likely to be the subject of some ridicule. Mycroft naturally would not understand and I suspected would turn his peculiar shade of indignant puce when he learned of the steps I had taken, but since it was at his insistence that I accept the case, I was ready to remind him of that fact when his telegraphed objections started appearing at my door.

Absurd, yes, but I had come to the conclusion that there was no other way. Ridicule or approval would be the result of my actions. And so, in the time honoured tradition, I went down on one knee.

"What I propose, Lady Agnes, is marriage," I said. "To foil Ricoletti, will you marry me?"

* * *

_**Bet you weren't expecting that! Do I hear wedding bells?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Fifteen!**_


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_****_

The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer

**Chapter Fifteen: The Announcement**

Three days later, I was seated in the corner of a first-class carriage, flying through the Vale of the White Horse en route to Easton Court, the country home of Lady Agnes Markham, which lay to the east of the tiny Cotswold village of Combe Easton.

This late in February, snow, crisped by frost, still lay like scattered salt across the empty fields and clung persistently to the tiles and shingles of distant farms and cottages. The thin plumes of smoke that struggled from their chimneys were the only signs of human habitation in this desolate landscape. It was cold, even in our carriage, and the heat from our breaths had clouded the windows and condensed to create long angled trails of dribbled water down the glass. I huddled inside my coat and began to wish that there was an easier way of bringing a heartless blackmailer to justice than travelling half way across England in these wintry conditions.

It should have been a consolation that I had a companion in my travels, but I might as well as have been alone for all the conversation that had passed between us. Miles had been in bad humour since an invitation from Lady Agnes to attend a shooting party at her country estate had arrived by the Wednesday morning post. At such short notice, it had taken all my powers of persuasion to convince him that we should accept.

He had grudgingly condescended to accompany me, although his change of heart may have had something to do with the fact that a certain Mrs Canning was among the other invited guests, the lady for whom he had abandoned me to the amorous Madame de Mont St Jean the night of the ball. The woman who could trump Madame in Miles's affections was certainly worth meeting; the cynical side of my nature suggested that it had something to do her willingness to lend him the thousand pounds for Fairfax's blackmailer.

If Miles had his own reasons for accepting the invitation, then so did I and I had chosen not to confide to him. Lady Agnes and I had our plans, although not in the manner I had intended. As I had feared, she had found my proposal of marriage most amusing. She had turned me down on the grounds that no one would ever take it seriously, for she had been a widow twenty years or more and had declined better offers than mine in the past.

She had, however, proved an excellent co-conspirator, in suggesting an alternative which was not only much more plausible, but was guaranteed to tempt Ricoletti into blackmailing me. It was also liable to raise a few hackles, and I had felt obliged to warn her yet again as to the possible dangers. To this, Lady Agnes had reiterated that the potential gains far outweighed the risks and had thanked me for giving her this last opportunity to be of use to her fellow man as her life entered its closing chapter.

I had to trust that she would not come to regret those words. Men who are about to lose their livelihoods, however nefarious, not to mention their liberty tend not to be the most rational in apportioning blame.

With that in mind, I had kept my promise to Langdale Pike and supplied him with the details of Ricoletti's activities, telling him it was to be published if something should happen to prevent my return. That had led on to the prediction of my death. Since it was now openly discussed in the best and worst salons, so he reliably informed me, and even his editor, oaf that he was, even knew of it, he was under increasing pressure to keep some report of it from his column. Indeed, his editor told him outright that if he would not do it, then he could soon find someone who would.

I had no choice but to give him my permission, on the proviso that my name not appear. If I survived the encounter, I had no desire to have such nonsense haunting me the rest of my days. Pike had baulked at this condition, but I reminded him that if, come Monday, I had been found drowned, poisoned or generally done to death by some such means involving water in any of its various forms, his column alone would be in possession of the facts behind what had proved to be a very real threat against my life. If not, however, the truth he would still have and none of the embarrassment of having printed scurrilous rumours based on the word of a charlatan.

Pike had agreed to this and, as before, wished me well. I had the distinct impression as he shook my hand, however, that his journalistic preference was for my demise, the more horrific the manner the better, since it would make for a more sensational story. Sad indictment of human nature though it is, bad news for someone will invariably sell more copies than all the glad tidings of weddings, found dogs and reunited families put together.

Whatever the outcome, one person who would not be continuing with his criminal activities was the opium den-owning detective who had blackmailed Theodore Fairfax. I had been busy since Tuesday in following Miles's lead to the Golden Dragon, and after some discreet inquiries, I had a name. I had been unable to speak to Lestrade personally before my departure and given the nature of the business I was reluctant to entrust it to anyone else. He would have it on my return; failing that, a letter was in the hands of my solicitors to be sent to him in the event of my death.

Perhaps it was the talk of predictions, but I had left nothing to chance. I had even made my will, leaving everything to Mycroft, who I hoped would not adopt his usual philistinism in relation to my interest in crime by throwing my collection of cuttings, books and journals into the nearest wastepaper bin. It was not the best frame of mind in which to undertake an investigation, but I could not shake a certain sense of foreboding as we drew ever closer to our destination. Death had stalked this case from the beginning and that it should end in the same manner seemed more than likely.

For this reason, I was glad of Miles's presence, even as silent as he was. Of him, I could see only his legs, for his upper half was concealed behind the generous sheets of _The Times_, which he had been reading since our departure from London. With little else to do, I had perused the articles facing me on the front page several times over. Along with a story of a wife murdered by her husband in Clapham and news of the troubles in Afghanistan was a short piece detailing the extraordinary good fortune of a Mrs Farintosh, whose opal tiara, stolen from the Royal Academy last week, had been unexpectedly returned to her anonymously. So much the papers knew; evidently she had been successfully in persuading Rodney-Ware find the money necessary to redeem her jewels.

In interview, however, Mrs Farintosh had declared that the tiara's safe return was entirely due to the diligence of Inspector Lestrade, whose investigations had surely frightened the thieves into returning their ill-gotten gains. The lady had been true to her word in remembering those who had helped her, although I imagined there were a few at Scotland Yard, Gregson included, who were not going to be pleased by her endorsement of Lestrade's aptitude.

I was still smiling to myself when Miles finished his reading, folded the paper and glanced at the front page. His eye came to rest on the article that had caught my attention and he snorted with contempt.

"What infernal nonsense," said he, tossing the paper aside. "This lady clearly knows more about the business than she is saying."

"Why would you think that?" I asked.

"My dear boy, never underestimate the innate cunning of womankind. To the man who would say that he has never encountered a clever woman, I would reply that he has already met many but lacks the intelligence to recognise it. Their skill is in concealing that fact; indeed, they are our superiors in the art of cunning. Pity the man who would marry an intelligent woman and believe himself to be master of his own home. I have known men of moderate intelligence who have married seemingly innocuous young women and found them a year later reduced to the level of weak-minded noodles, dependent on their wife's whims in the smallest detail. You have only to walk down Oxford Street to see the growing number of henpecked husbands. Why, it seems to be the very fashion these days."

I could not prevent myself from smiling. Miles, in the grip of one of his lectures on the foibles of mankind, could be quite amusing at times. "Isn't that rather cynical?" I said.

"By no means. It is simply an observation. It is why I shall never marry, for I at least recognise my limitations. Nor should you, if you have any sense."

"I might," I said, wondering what he would have made of the fact that I had proposed not three days before.

He shook his head. "Sherlock, you would be eaten alive. You are blinkered in the extreme. You are like an old carthorse, who sees only the path that lies before him. All one has to do is to wave a carrot before your nose and you follow it obediently. Oh, you dispute that, do you? Well, you have been warned. Do not come to me, your poor cousin, when you find yourself unhappily wed and deceived on all fronts, and tell me that I was correct. You are not worldly, that is why you are ready to take this Mrs Farintosh at her word."

"You still have not explained why you think that she is lying."

"I do not think it," said he, drawing a cigarette from his silver case; "I _know_ it. This tale is a very poor invention. When was the last time you ever heard of a professional thief returning anything because he was in fear of being arrested by a fat-bottomed bobby?"

"Do you have a good word to say for anyone?" I said, laughing at the unhappy image his words brought to mind.

"No, mainly because no one ever has a good word to say for _me_. I naturally include your brother in that," he added. His eyes swept over me. "I suppose he has told you why?"

"Not in any great detail. He suggested it was due to your differences in character."

Miles smiled wryly. "Oh, yes, we were very different. He was what I should call a 'skulker'. Always skulking in the library or in his room, studying. I was gregarious, Mycroft was not. I was popular, Mycroft was not. I dare say he resented that fact. Whether you realise it or not, Sherlock, your brother is one of the most deeply ambitious men I know. Allied with that is a devious strain of ruthlessness. Blood is supposed to be thicker than water, but Mycroft has never let that stand in his way when it comes to getting what he wants. More specifically, he would never let _you_ stand in his way."

I would have disagreed if not for the memory of a conversation a few weeks before, at the conclusion of my last, near fatal, case. Mycroft had known of the danger, had tried obliquely to warn me off, and then left me to discover the nature of the situation for myself. At the time he had tried to explain it away by asserting that I would never have given up the case had he told me the truth; now I began to wonder. If Miles was right, then the charge that I had levelled at Mycroft at the time stood, that there was nothing he would not sacrifice for the sake of a principle. And that _did_ include me.

"Ah, I see that you do understand," Miles said, studying me closely. "Know thine enemy, Sherlock. Do not let that slothful demeanour of his deceive you. It is a carefully cultivated charade, designed to lull all and sundry into a false sense of security. He is a stalking horse in the mould of the Roman Emperor Claudius, one of those men of whom no one ever expects much, and yet by some means, quite how people are never entirely sure, they rise to the top. The fact is they do so by stepping over the bodies of their rivals."

Again, his words had the ring of truth. Mycroft never appeared to do much, yet he had the ear of the Prime Minister and influence enough to have persuaded the elder statesmen to entrust a matter of family honour to his younger brother. An _éminence grise_, Miles had called him, which, from what Mycroft had told me, was an accurate description of his position. Certainly no one ever attained such heights without considerable effort.

"What happened?" I asked. "Between you and Mycroft?"

Miles shrugged lightly. "It was a long time ago. An old, valuable book went missing from the university library. Mycroft 'discovered' it in my room. Oh, I'm certain he placed it there. I never studied, so what the devil did I want with books? He resented me, Sherlock. I believe the final straw was when I was invited to dine with the Chancellor and he was not. Beauty over brains, you see."

I stared at him, seeking sincerity in his expression, and was not disappointed.

"I suppose there is some pride to be had on being the first of his victims, although it did not feel like it at the time," he continued. "He gave me an ultimatum: I could leave college of my own volition or he would expose me as a thief." He smiled. "I chose to leave. Despite that, I do not hate your brother. If I had stayed to complete my studies, no doubt I would have ended my days festering in some despicable occupation, so I have much to thank him for. But I cannot forgive him."

His eyes became the colour of granite, hardened by the force of memory.

"He killed my father. Oh, not personally, you understand. He's too much the craven to strike the blow himself. My father was not a well man. The news I had abandoned my studies was more than he could bear. His heart gave out. To me, he left his debts and my three helpless siblings. And yet, we survived. I have an innate talent for that." He chuckled. "No doubt it did not please Mycroft. Nothing irritates one's rivals more than that you should flourish despite their best efforts to the contrary."

I did not want to believe any of this, and yet deep down it had struck a chord. I had to wonder at my willingness to believe ill of Mycroft so readily; I could only conclude that Miles had voiced what I had known to be true for some time. All the same, treachery did not come easily to me, and I owed it to my maligned brother to speak up in his defence.

"If what you say is true," I asked, "why then would you agree to help me?"

Miles lit his cigarette, blatantly disregarding the 'No Smoking' sign on the carriage window. "Mycroft has powerful friends. I should not like to cross him. And, of course, I was interested in you, Sherlock. I wanted to see if Mycroft was callous enough to do to his own brother what he does to others." He smiled at me through dissipating smoke rings. "I am glad to see, however, that you retain at least _some_ semblance of spirit."

"Mycroft does not rule me," I said defensively, pulling down a window and letting the gathering smoke drift away. "Should you be doing that here?"

"Ah, now _that_ is your brother speaking," said Miles. "That prim regard for rules and regulations is his stamp. It is a means of control, nothing more. Do this, do that or else. Well, I do not dance to anyone's tune. If I wish to smoke, I will and hang the consequences." He opened his cigarette case and held it out to me. "Why don't you try it, Sherlock? What is the worst that can happen?"

"We can be put off the train."

"Then we'll catch the next. The men who make their mark do not do so because they follow the rules. Would they have called Byron mad, bad and dangerous to know if he had stayed at home and tended his garden? Of course not. Man seeks to rule himself, but life by its very nature seeks to rebel." He brought his hand a little closer, urging temptation. "Be brave, Sherlock. The history of mankind began with an act of disobedience. Defy convention. Defy your brother."

It was no apple and Miles no Eve, but there was something gloriously appealing about his suggestion. I took a cigarette, much to his evident approval, lit it, and enjoyed a minute or two of guilty pleasure before hurriedly pitching it out of the window when the dark shape of a man shuffled by in the corridor outside. At this Miles had laughed, and the rest of the journey passed with me wishing I had not been so precipitate and counting the minutes until we arrived at Lady Agnes's stately pile.

An hour later, we gained our first sight of Easton Court, a time-worn, ugly Elizabethan house, squatting at the end of a long drive between ancient elms, its two wings thrown out like arms to gather the unwary into its heart. The sky was suitably overcast, so that the house brooded over its surroundings like an irritable giant, smoke spewing from its copious chimneys, dying ivy clinging to its crusty Cotswold stone and a few glimmers of lights in the sprinkling of windows that pierced its walls at irregular intervals.

It was not an inviting house, although our welcome was warm enough. Lady Agnes, we were informed, had been taken ill earlier in the day and was unable to receive us personally, so that duty had fallen to her niece, the vacant Lady Walton, who expressed her hope that her aunt would be well enough to join her guests at dinner.

A note to that effect from Lady Agnes herself was awaiting me in my room, saying how much she was looking forward to what she described as 'the evening's entertainment'. With the lady in worsening health, I had my doubts as to the wisdom of continuing with our plans, although whether I could now convince Lady Agnes to do otherwise was debateable. The lady was determined, and so was I.

There was no turning back. The game was well and truly afoot.

Our chosen prey for the evening, a fat, bald, beady-eyed cozener and blackmailer by the name of Ricoletti, with a limp and a permanent sheen of sweat on his brow, was blissfully unaware of our intentions. We played our parts with good grace, he remarking what a kind hostess Lady Agnes was in inviting him to her gathering and me returning the gesture, before retiring to the dining room for the evening repast.

We were twelve at table that night, including Ricoletti, Miles and myself, Lady Agnes, who was helped to her seat at the head of the table by her companion, Jane, and her niece and nephew-in-law, Lord Walton. Making up the numbers were several elderly ladies, one a lean, hard-eyed woman by the name of Mrs Pervis and her counterpart the large, indulgent Lady Fossgate. Due to her fragile health, Lady Agnes's physician, Dr Wendell, had been invited to join us and was seated beside the birdlike Mrs Granger, wife of the bluff general to my left – a man so old, according to Miles, that when he spoke of his last battle, he meant Waterloo – whilst to my right was Mrs Canning, a pleasant if dull woman of about fifty who talked a great deal and occasionally said something interesting.

Dinner proved to be an elegant affair of three courses, dessert and numerous _entrées_ and _removes_, more than I could reasonably do full justice. By the time I had finished the mock turtle soup and fish course, I already eaten more in one sitting than I usually managed during a day. By the time I was faced with a choice of saddle of mutton or sirloin of Herefordshire beef, I was struggling. I picked at my food with an increasing sense of biliousness as yet another course comprising a fat capon in sauce was set on my plate to stew in a puddle of grease and cream.

Lady Agnes too I noticed was eating frugally, and was enjoying Miles's lively conversation more than her meal. She appeared frailer than ever, held together by little more than her iron will, and the very light seemed to shine through the skin of the skeletal hand she raised every now and then to call her companion to her side.

"Dear Jane is such a godsend," Mrs Canning remarked, cutting into my thoughts as I watched the dutiful woman fill a glass of port for her mistress. "Lady Agnes was fortunate to gain her services after Lady Anstead passed away."

"Lady Agnes's companion was previously employed by Lady Anstead? I did not know that."

"Oh, yes. She nursed her until her dying day. Such devotion. She's a widow, I believe. Her husband had some appalling name like Piccalilli – no, I tell a lie, it was Pickles. Yes, that's her name – Mrs Jane Pickles. Poor thing, she was most upset when Lady Anstead passed away. She would have been homeless had Lady Agnes not employed her."

"Quite so. I understood Lady Anstead was to marry. I did not realise she was in such a poor state of health."

"Her heart was a little weak, although I have to say that she made the most of her condition. She enjoyed malingering, if you ask me. She improved considerably when she became engaged to young George – most likely it was the undue emotion that killed her. We none of us were deceived of course. It was a marriage of convenience. Lady Anstead wanted company and George needed the money. Still, people have married for less noble reasons in the past."

She took a dainty sip of her sherry and I was left wondering what Mrs Canning thought less noble than marrying for mercenary considerations.

"Now if I were to marry again," she continued, "it would be for love." Her gaze fell wistfully on my cousin. "I was so glad to hear that Miles had accepted Lady Agnes's invitation. I see so little of him these days."

"Indeed." Under the combined weight of our stares, Miles glanced in our direction and raised a glass in salute. "You did not see him last Friday then?"

Mrs Canning blushed. "You can hardly expect me to answer that, Mr Holmes."

"Forgive me, I only ask because he did not return home that night. I assumed—"

"Then you assume wrong, sir," said she brusquely. "This is the first I have seen of him for at least three weeks."

Her silken feathers were a little ruffled, although more I suspected because of the implication that Miles had been neglecting her for another of his favourites rather than because of any slur I had cast on her reputation.

"Miles has many friends," she went on. "I expect he was with them. Or at that other place of his – oh, what is it called now? You know, that place on Piccadilly where all the bachelors have rooms."

"The Albany," I supplied.

"Why, yes, that's it." She smiled indulgently at the object of her affections at the other end of the table. "Well, it's only natural that a young man like Miles needs somewhere private of his own. He would have no peace otherwise. It really is quite appalling how some people insist on regaling the poor man with all their dull tales. How he puts up with it, I shall never know."

She continued in the same vein, but I had stopped listening. Miles had lied to me about where he had been that night. If he had gone to the Albany, he would have seen and heard the commotion outside the Royal Academy after the discovery of the theft. Yet he had made no mention of it to me. Clearly then he had not been there, but had gone to pay a visit on another of his 'admirers'. Who then was the mystery woman who was able to provide him with considerable sums of money at short notice? And, more pertinently, why did Miles not wish me to know her name?

The tinkling of a silver bell brought me from my brown study. Lady Agnes had called her guests to silence and, now comfortably commanding the attention at the table, she regarded us with imperishable dignity and serene, illusionless eyes.

"First," she began, "let me thank you for agreeing to attend what must inevitably be the last gathering I shall ever host beneath my own roof. After this, I trust I shall dine in my Father's house." She quelled the murmur that arose with a raised hand. "You know me all to be a practical woman. To that end, I have an announcement to make. An issue has been preying on my mind for some time that must now be addressed."

She took a deep breath, steadied herself and I glimpsed the trace of a smile in the eyes that turned fleetingly in my direction

"It was a matter of considerable distress to my late husband, God rest his soul, that we were never blessed with children. He died a troubled man, in the certain knowledge that others of his noble name would never again take their place in our history. I find in my autumn years, that this consideration grieves me too. I do not complain; in many ways, I have been more fortunate than some, in having a niece and her husband, who I have always regarded as the daughter and son I never had."

She paused and looked at us in turn. "And yet, I find if I am to ease my late husband's sorrow and my conscience, this is not enough. I am in a position to do a little good in this world, to one, who through no fault of his own, finds that as one of many, he lacks the advantages that come to those who are not so bountifully blessed."

"Agnes, what the devil are you talking about?" interjected Lord Walton.

"I have been greatly impressed by his integrity and honesty," Lady Agnes continued, smiling at me, revelling in the situation and clearly enjoying the discomfort she was causing. "I believe my husband would have approved also. Which is why, on the understanding that he changes his name, I propose to adopt the young man seated at the end of the table. Well, what do you have to say, Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

_**Will their plan go right? What will Miles have to say about it? And do we believe that Mycroft is really that much of a cad? **_

_**Continued in Chapter Sixteen!**_


	17. Chapter Sixteen

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter ****Sixteen: The Game Askew**

In answer to such a question, I did what we had planned and what the other guests no doubt dreaded: I said yes.

"You do me great honour, Lady Agnes," I added. "I shall endeavour to live up to your expectations."

Rarely have I generated such hostility with a single remark. The civility of the dining table tends to restrain the most violent of reactions, but I was left in no uncertainty that had not several yards of Derby porcelain and polished serried silver separated us, my circumstances would not have been assured.

"You unspeakable scoundrel," said Lord Walton, rising to his feet.

"If I were ten years younger, sir, I'd take you outside and horsewhip you," said the elderly General Granger at my side, throwing his table napkin aside with the purposeful air of man intent on taking action, but unable to put thought into deed.

"Gerald dear," said his wife insistently. "Remember your arthritis."

"The devil with arthritis!" he retorted. "Why, sir, if you were under my command, I'd teach you a thing or two, you insolent young puppy!"

"This is not the army, General," said Lady Agnes patiently, "and Mr Holmes is my guest. Please remember that."

"But it's outrageous," he blustered. "My dear woman, do you know what you're doing?"

"I am fully aware of my actions," said she. "I am also aware that certain around this table may have cause to question this decision of mine." She looked particularly at her nephew-in-law as she spoke. "However, my mind is quite made up."

"I do not think you know what you do," said Walton, indignation quivering through his generous jowls. "You would disinherit your own flesh and blood for this… _this_ person?"

"Do sit down, Charles. Excess emotion is quite unpalatable after so large a meal." With the red-faced fellow suitably subdued and back in his chair, she drew a deep breath and gazed at him benignly. "No one is being disinherited. My niece shall have her due, but no more. There are greater and nobler considerations than your financial security. I refer to the extinction of a line; is that to be weighed against your need for pheasant pie and afternoons at the race course?"

"If you place your hopes upon this fellow, then I fear you will be disappointed." Walton's fierce gaze turned on Miles. "You, sir, have done this thing. You have conspired to defraud my aunt. You are notorious. By Jove, you shall not hear the last of this!"

Miles, as inscrutable as ever, who had presented only the mildest flicker of surprise when the announcement was made, now nearly choked on his drink and seemed quite offended by the charge.

"My dear Walton, I am quite the innocent party in this. I am as taken aback by this turn of events as you. Why, I never realised that my cousin had an ounce of ambition in that direction."

"There you have it!" he raged, jabbing a fat finger in my direction. "You, sir, are guilty of gross ambition, and denounced from your cousin's own lips! Agnes, surely now you must see sense. He does not even try to deny it."

Throughout all, Lady Agnes had remained calm and unperturbed, admirable under the circumstances and weight of opposition. One would never have imagined that we were playing a game, for her voice never wavered from anything but sincerely earnest and the gaze she now levelled at her protesting nephew-in-law was cool and censorious.

"Do you imagine," said she imperiously, "that I have lived so long and yet am ignorant of the baser motives of mankind? I am not so foolish. Nor am I swayed by charm and a pretty face. This is a business transaction, nothing more, between Mr Holmes and me. It does not need your prior approval or your consent."

"A business transaction?" he returned disbelievingly.

"Yes, that is exactly what it is. What is more natural than that when the farmer finds his own stock running low, he buys from his neighbour?"

"We are not talking in terms of cattle."

"We are talking of commodities, which is much the same thing. Anything can be bought these days – you work in government, you should know that. I propose simply to replenish my late husband's line so that his name might survive into another century." She smiled at me. "I have inspected the available stock and have made my selection. However, as one might hear excellent reports of a thoroughbred from its owner, it is to the specialist I turn for the final inspection." She turned to the gentleman she had taken care to seat at her side. "I fear I was not entirely honest about my intentions when I invited you this evening, Signor Ricoletti. I would have you give some account of this young man's character by your particular skill in chiromancy. If you would oblige me in this matter, you will not find me ungenerous."

"This is madness," said Walton. "Agnes, have you lost your mind? Dr Wendell, my aunt is ill—"

"Thank you, Doctor, I am quite well," said she, waving the medical man back to his chair. "You go too far, Charles. When I am dead, then you may say of me what you will, but whilst you are a guest under my roof, you will behave accordingly or I shall ask you to leave. As for my wishes, you have your colts inspected for soundness of limb; I would have Mr Holmes inspected for soundness of mind. Well, Signor?"

Ricoletti placed his hand upon his breast and inclined his head. "It would be my honour, Lady Agnes, to assist you in this capacity. I should mention that I have already made Mr Holmes's acquaintance. He…" He glanced dubiously in my direction. "I hesitate to mention this, but I have found indications that his future may not be secure."

"You refer to your prediction that he shall die by water." Lady Agnes nodded. "I aware of this and it does not concern me. All men must die; it is the knowledge of our own mortality that sets us apart from the animals. No, it is his character that interests me, that and his future conduct. I will have no disgrace fall upon this house. You have no objections, I trust, Mr Holmes?"

"None whatsoever, Lady Agnes."

"Good." She gestured to her companion, who came hurrying to her mistress's side to help her to her feet. "Time – my time in particular – is drawing near. My solicitor is coming down tomorrow with the paperwork for me to sign – if I am satisfied as to this young man's character. I shall expect your report before then, Signor."

Leaning heavily upon her stick and with her companion steadying her arm, Lady Agnes withdrew, her doctor, niece and plethora of ladies following dutifully in her wake, leaving me to bear the recriminations of her remaining kith and kin. Before the affray began in earnest, Ricoletti, sensing that he was as unwelcome as either Miles or myself, excused himself, bowed and said he would await my pleasure in the library.

"If you were a gentleman, sir," said General Granger, struggling to rise from his chair, "you would leave this house this instant and not return. But then you are no gentleman. That much is certain."

"Say what you will about my cousin," Miles spoke up, "but I feel I must put in a word for the rest of the family. Our grandfather was a queer old coot to be sure, but he did at least have a title to go with his other eccentricities."

"You may laugh, sir," said Walton, "but if you think the family will stand by and let you deceive a good woman, you are very much mistaken. I am not a man to cross, Mr Holmes." His dagger-like gaze turned in my direction. "I shall see you ruined for this, you and that conniving brother of yours and the rest of your infernal relatives. What do you say to that, sir?"

I shrugged. "I can only regret that Lady Agnes's decision displeases you, Lord Walton. However, the choice was hers, not mine."

"Very well, if that is your position, so be it. We'll see about this. You have been warned, sir. Now you must take the consequences."

"On the whole," Miles observed, as the door banged behind the slower of the two departing gentleman, leaving us alone, "I thought that went rather well."

I sighed. "I thought that was singularly unpleasant. I hope Lady Agnes does not suffer for the kindness she has shown me."

"A woman like that is unlikely to be swayed by anything that nephew-in-law of hers has to say." Miles chuckled, the gleam of animation showing behind his languid eyelids. "I haven't had such a lively evening for ages. I dare say this happens to you all the time, but this was quite a novel experience for me. Why, you sly fox, Sherlock. You know, I'm really quite annoyed."

"Yes, I apologise for not forewarning you."

He shook his head. "No, no, what I mean is that I'm annoyed I didn't think of it first. I've wasted years sniffing around the edges, and then in you come and snap up first prize. Heavens, I wish you were my brother. Mine haven't the initiative for so bold a move as that. If Mycroft doesn't approve then he's a silly tomfool, which goes without saying." This time he laughed out loud. "I would give worlds to see his face when you tell him. He will have an apoplexy!"

"I fear he will not thank me when Walton begins his reign of persecution."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about that. What's the worst he can do?"

"He'll probably have Mycroft drummed out of Whitehall."

"Yes, he probably will. Poor Mimi." Miles grinned broadly. "I shouldn't laugh, but really, I couldn't have devised a better means of pricking his pomposity myself. I could almost grow to like you, Sherlock."

"What of you? Will you suffer because of this?"

"Oh, I do hope so. One would not wish to be merely notorious; it suggests a lack of ambition. To be infamous, however, well, I believe I could quite happily retire with such a soubriquet attached to my name. In a world of Honourable Henrys and Lord Johns, to be Infamous Miles would be a rare achievement indeed." He finished his drink and rose to leave the table. "Well, Sherlock, I would wish you the best of luck with your chiromancer, but I fear I have nothing to teach you. However, one must be gracious in defeat. I do not look upon it so much as losing a cousin as gaining a fortune." He patted my shoulder as he passed. "And I hope you will not forget those who set you upon the road to such wealth."

"I do not have it yet. Ricoletti may find something untoward in my future."

"A mere formality, my dear boy," said Miles dismissively. "If he tries to make trouble, slip the fellow money and be done with it."

I stared at him. Was it possible that Miles had known Ricoletti's blackmail scheme all along? Had the answer been that obvious that I had been blinded to the truth by my innate prejudice – or rather the prejudice that Mycroft had engendered over the years with his tales of our ne'er-do-well cousin? It was therefore a relief when Miles's next remark reassured me that I had not compounded my growing list of errors with yet another one.

"Good heavens," he went on, blithely unaware of my turmoil, "it's what I would do with such a fortune at stake. Promise the fellow what he wants; I'll see you get it. You can repay me later."

"And where would you such a sum?" I said, unable to keep the hint of accusation from my voice. "Not from Mrs Canning. She told me that you didn't go to meet her the night of the ball. You never got the thousand pounds for Fairfax from her."

Miles paused. "I never said that I did."

"Then from whom?"

"Tell me first why it matters to you."

I could not tell him, mostly because I could not understand it myself, save that it had suddenly become very important that I should hear the truth. I could not deny that I had lied to Miles about my purpose in persuading him to accept Lady Agnes's invitation, but the thought that he kept secrets from me – even those concerning his amours – gnawed at the very essence of my being.

"Who is she, Miles?"

A smile slowly took shape on his mouth. "Despite what you have been led to believe, Sherlock, my life is really rather pedestrian. I grow old, cousin. The days when beautiful women showered me with gifts and gold are fading fast. I am forced to supplement my meagre existence with a good deal of invention. Who among us would choose to live forever in the light of day without the shelter of night? What a dull world it would be if we all wore our truths openly."

"What is the truth?"

"I won it, if you must know, on the turn of a card. I left you at the ball that night and went to my club. I managed to win enough to cover Theo's debts and my own, with enough left over to keep my siblings in the style to which they have become accustomed. Fortune has not favoured me lately; that is why I did not have Theo's money sooner. Had the cards turned more readily in my favour, perhaps he would not have been driven to such desperate measures." He fell silent, distracting himself with rearranging what remained of the cutlery. "Well, now you know."

"Yes, thank you for your frankness. I did wonder."

"And is it any of your business?" The eyes he turned to meet mine were suddenly cold. "It irks you, doesn't it? I toil not, and neither do I sew. I should say, Sherlock, considering your conduct, that if I were you, I would loath to pass judgement on other people."

"Miles, you do not understand."

"I understand only too well," said he. "Well, let us say no more about it. Go to your chiromancer. You may rely on me for whatever sum his silence demands." He turned to go, only to pause and look back. "Oh, and if Walton suggests you join him at the shoot tomorrow, refuse. There's many an accident attributable to the proximity of men with loaded guns and grudges. Good night, cousin."

Perhaps I was allowing my imagination to run away with me, but there was a feeling of decisiveness about the way he closed the door behind him that suggested finality. I had not meant to offend him, although clearly I had. It had been ungenerous of me to doubt him, but I had had to know. Mysteries by their very nature demand to be solved. I had my answer, but at what price? I had few enough allies as it was without alienating Miles prematurely. When all was revealed, he would be well within his rights never to speak to me again. And, as much as I hated to admit it, that thought was not a pleasant one.

It was too late to turn back, however. I was bound to see the business through to the end. Then there would be time for explanations. First, I had a charlatan to expose, and as he had promised, I found him waiting for me in the library, taking the liberty of leafing through an old leather-bound volume of prints that had been left on the table. He looked up expectantly when he saw me and smiled, a gesture as false as ever, never reaching his eyes.

"Mr Holmes," said he, pushing his spectacles a little higher up his nose. Behind the dust-spotted lenses his small eyes regarded me keenly. "I had expected that our paths would cross again, although not under these circumstances."

"Indeed, you do surprise me, Signor Ricoletti. I thought all was known to a reader of palms."

The smile deepened, still lacking sincerity. "That is common misconception. I am able to gain a general impression of the future, Mr Holmes. Details, however, elude me, as they elude us all."

"Yet surely the little things in life are infinitely the most important."

"Well, they do say that the devil is in the detail." His eyes glittered. "For example, there is the small matter of your sudden good fortune. That was a detail that I had quite overlooked."

"You did say I was bound for either fame or scandal."

"I seem to remember I also warned against a tendency towards manipulation of your fellow man. I see my counsel was wasted or ignored."

"Perhaps I have only acted as Fate dictated." I held out my hand to him, palm up. "The non-dominant hand I think you said speaks of a man's wishes and hopes. Won't you read mine, as Lady Agnes requested?"

He remained where he was, disregarding my challenge. "I am already in possession of everything I need to know about you, Mr Holmes."

If ever he would make his move, it would be now. I felt my heartbeat quicken. "What will you tell her?" I asked.

He thought hard for a moment. "That you are a clever man, Mr Holmes, but one day you will meet someone who will make your intelligence pale into insignificance. That is the natural order of things. We all of us have our moments. The truly clever man knows when the time has come to leave the stage to others. Will you, I wonder?"

"Wise words. Do you follow your own advice?"

"One does one's best," said he. "Often it is easier to advise other people."

"And what would you advise me?"

"To stand down, Mr Holmes."

"I cannot concede defeat."

"Then it will be forced upon you."

I held his gaze. "By you?"

He chuckled. "I am but a poor pedlar of fortunes. Those who come to me do so seeking reassurance. I do not flatter myself that anything I have said has ever made a difference. I tell people what they want to hear, that their future spouses will adore them forever, that their children will go far…" He smiled knowingly. "And that the young men they wish to adopt are of good character. Have no fear. I shall not come between you and Lady Agnes. You credit me with more influence than I have if you believe that she would take much notice of what I have to say. Her ladyship has a mind of her own, to be sure. I could tell her that you were the Devil incarnate and she would still defy her family in your favour. But I see that you are disappointed," said he. "What did you expect?"

What I had expected was that he would demand money for a favourable report. Lady Agnes and I had built our scheme of deception on my certainty of that. Now I was being told that Ricoletti was guilty of nothing more than pandering to the whims of silly young couples and doting parents.

It was a strange situation. I was perhaps the only man in history who _wanted_ to be blackmailed and found himself frustrated. I had been so sure, recklessly so, enough to convince Lady Agnes to cause a rift within her family while I was pilloried as the most unprincipled cad in England. I could have borne this with a glad heart had Ricoletti walked blithely into our trap. His refusal to play the game, however, left me with nothing but my unsubstantiated suspicions.

Worst of all, Ricoletti knew it. And now he was revelling in my discomfort.

"Withdraw, Mr Holmes," said he, pausing beside me on his way to the door. "Lord Walton is a vindictive man. You cannot win this game."

"The game is not over yet," I replied.

"Oh, but I think it is. Certainly it is for me. This shall be my final consultation, my last bow, as it were. It is time I took my own advice and retired from the field."

He had his hand on the door handle when I called him back. "Running away, Signor Ricoletti?"

"It was a wiser man than me who once said that he who fights and runs away may live to fight another day." He bowed. "So, until another day, Mr Holmes."

With that, he was gone and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I had failed, perhaps not utterly, but it was failure nonetheless by my standards. I had succeeded in bringing an end to his nefarious activities, if it was true that he claimed to be considering retirement. That would satisfy the illustrious personage who had instigated my interest in the case in the first instance, but it was not enough for me. It had gone beyond the mere apprehension of a criminal into something more personal. Ricoletti had challenged me in pitting his wits against mine; it was galling to think that he had won. Nothing less than his imprisonment would suffice now – but I was confounded as to the means of accomplishing it.

It was scant consolation to think that there would be those other days with which Ricoletti had taunted me. He would not escape so lightly. Even if it meant hounding him the rest of my days, I swore that I would find a way. My professional and personal pride demanded it. Either that, or I would have to get used to the taste of defeat, and bitter gall was never easily to swallow.

I brooded in the library until the clock struck ten, in which time I had been untroubled by servants or cousins or irate members of the family. My greatest sorrow was the knowledge that I would have to tell Lady Agnes that our plan had failed. It had meant so much to her, and that fragile hope seemed all that had been keeping her alive these past few days. I would have to crush her hopes as I crushed those of the unfortunate Fairfax. It was something that was growing to be a habit.

When I finally wandered up to bed, I found a note from Lady Agnes, asking me to come to her room. No doubt she wanted some account of my interview with Ricoletti. By now, he had probably provided her with a glowing report of my character, from which she had concluded that he had extracted from me a promise to pay him a large sum of money for his compliance. What she could not have guessed was that he had acted against his usual nature and sung my praises for nothing.

The morning would have been a better time for confession, but as Miles had said, our sins seem greater in the light of day. For the kindness she had shown me and the trust I had yet to earn, she deserved the truth, however late the hour. I had been commanded into her presence and I could not refuse.

That she was expecting me was evident, for the door of her bedroom was ajar, allowing a thin crack of light to spill out onto the aged, creaking floorboards of the landing. Out of deference, I knocked, but received no reply. Trying again with the same result, I pushed the door open a little wider, feeling the heat of the fire in the grate rush out to warm my cheeks. There was something on the hearth rug, an indistinct shape, painted yellow and black by the firelight. Closer inspection revealed a mass of crumpled clothes, the tassels and braids of a dressing-gown, and a single slippered foot.

I hurried to Lady Agnes's side, turning her onto her back and feeling her neck for a pulse. Her head lolled, the thinning white hair fanning across the rug like a halo, made gold by the crisp light of the dancing flames. She looked serene, eased from the pain that had blighted her last days and etched deep lines of misery into her face. Death had spared her the knowledge of my failure as it had the necessity of my having to tell her. If her spirit reproved me, it did so in silence.

What her family would say was another matter. I would have to admit that I had involved Lady Agnes in my plan to bring Ricoletti to justice. I would be blamed for her death, justifiably so. The strain of deceiving and confronting her family had proved too much, they would say. That the lady had been a willing conspirator and had conceived the idea herself would never be allowed. Perhaps that denial was the saddest thing of all.

It was too late for recriminations. I would have to wake Dr Wendell to confirm the death, the family would be informed and then I would have to take the consequences. By tomorrow, I could well find myself enjoying the dubious pleasures of the local police station. With that thought in mind, I laid the body on the rug and pulled a shawl up over her face. Then something hit me a stunning blow over the back of the head and I knew no more.

* * *

_**It's all gone horribly wrong! Whatever next? And who hit him? **__**Speculation and theories from amateur sleuths welcome, because it sounds like Mr Holmes needs a little help!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Seventeen!**_


	18. Chapter Seventeen

_Hmm, some interesting theories. I'm glad to say that for some readers, certain revelations in this chapter will come as no surprise. Everything else, I hope, will..._

* * *

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Seventeen: Revelation**

I awoke in darkness.

For a terrible moment, I thought I had been struck blind, so absolute was the Stygian night. It was not the dark itself that was disturbing, but the complete absence of light. Wherever I was, this chamber, my prison, was remote, secure and cloying.

I was no longer in the house, that much was certain. Whoever had struck me – and I berated myself for being so easily taken – had moved me to this place, with its over-powering stench of a room too long closed, the oozing decay of damp, the incessant drip of water, and the unutterable cold that had already started to penetrate my inadequate clothing long before I had emerged from unconsciousness.

I was shivering, and every twitch reminded me that somewhere at the back of my head was a brooding epicentre of pain. Bitter experience taught me that superfluous movement was inadvisable after my first tentative experiment to take in my surroundings. Lifting my head had caused an eruption of agony, which had wrapped itself vice-like about my temples, sent thrills of pain coursing down my spine and stabbed me in the back of the eyeballs with red-hot needles. With nothing to see, I did not attempt the manoeuvre again, and the beast within my head had subsided to a simmering and resentful ache.

As much as I could not explore my surroundings visually, someone had taken the trouble to see that I could not do so physically either. At my back was the pressure of knobbly spindles and the arch of a chair back. Silken cords knotted too tightly about my wrists were looped and bound around the chair's rear legs and supporting struts, forcing my arms back and down, near tugging the joints from the sockets in the process. The result of this was that my arms had grown mercifully numb long before I had awoken. I was gagged too, with a wad of cloth that tasted of old roses and faded summer days. Evidently my attacker had not had to look too far for my bindings: a dressing-gown cord and a lady's handkerchief had sufficed.

At such times does one beginning to see the deficiencies of evening dress. If there are clothes suitable for every occasion – and no doubt Miles would be the one to consult on such matters – then crisp shirts, tight collars and polished shoes are not to be preferred over something infinitely more practical, preferably with a penknife secreted in the sleeve. I felt absurd, deservedly so for ending up tied to a chair in a room as black as pitch in the first place, and apprehensive as to how this scenario was going to end.

If one wanted an analogy, the words 'game' and 'meat cold store' came too quickly to mind for my liking. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to remove me from the house and had left me here with some purpose in mind, and most likely a sinister one at that.

Who that person might be naturally commanded my thoughts in lieu of my lack of opportunities for escape. Ricoletti was my first choice for obvious reasons, except that thumping me over the head and dragging me away some quiet place to commit bloody murder did not seem to be his style. The man was a coward; at the slightest hint of danger, he had thrown in his hand and was ready to retire.

As matters stood, I presented no threat to him. I had nothing to place before a court and should I dare to voice my suspicions, he would have a good case for bringing a charge of slander against me. I had no witnesses to speak in my defence, for the fears that had forced them to pay for his silence before would cause them to hold their tongues still.

Overall, as good a candidate as Ricoletti appeared to be, I had my doubts. Lord Walton, on the other hand, had every reason to want me out of the way. With Lady Agnes dead and the non-existent documents making me her heir not yet signed, I could only assume that he considered I could still make a claim on her estate, based on her public declaration of her intentions the night before. If so, removing me would be in his best interests. Ricoletti had said Walton was a vindictive man. If he was my assailant, I was about to discover how implacable an enemy he could be.

General Granger was a conceivable possibility, having expressed a wish to have me horse-whipped for what he saw as my deception of Lady Agnes. As alarming as that prospect was, I dismissed it on the grounds that the general was elderly and, so I judged, incapable of hauling a man of my weight and build from the house without rousing the whole household. That supposed that it had been done without their prior knowledge. I had made myself very unpopular last night and I doubted few around the table would have been slow to turn a blind eye if some terrible fate was about to befall me.

On the other hand, the fact that I was gagged suggested someone did not want my plaintive cries summoning help. Therefore, my attacker was working without the approval of the others, and unless Granger had called upon his wife to assist him in my removal, which seemed unlikely, I felt I was safe in ruling him out.

Then there was Miles. I discounted him from the first, but I did harbour concerns that he too might have fallen foul of the hostility I had generated. The problem with shunning convention was that the world could be a lonely place when things went wrong. Miles cultivated animosity as other men did amity and was pleased enough with his efforts to think it a virtuous calling.

The friends he did have, seemingly a loose collection of misfits, journalists and equally unconventional women, were not the sort of people one turned to in a crisis. And this undoubtedly was a crisis, by anyone's definition. I imagined him come the morning trying to muster a search party in an effort to locate me and becoming diverted by the charms of the simpering Mrs Canning. If I were to survive, I could not wait for Miles, but would have to shift for myself.

My first priority was to escape my bonds. That was easier said than done. As smooth as the cords might be, they were tight and the knots carefully left out of the reach of my searching fingers. I remembered reading one of those tiresome books full of unbelievable coincidences invariably forced upon young boys when confined to bed with coughs and sniffles about a man who extricated himself from such a situation by flinging the chair backwards, breaking the wooden spindles at the first attempt and freeing himself in time to defeat his adversary armed with little more than a fierce look in his eye. If memory served, he emerged from the encounter without a stain on his clothes or his character.

Not that I expected to be able to do the same. Emulating his fine example was likely to fail on several fronts, not least because the chair felt uncompromisingly solid and going over backwards, with my arms positioned as they were, made it more than probable that I would end up with broken bones than broken spindles. Even if the chair did break, I had to hope that the legs and braces would go too, otherwise I would end up on my back, still tethered when my assailant returned and looking more absurd than ever.

What to do, however, soon became academic for as I struggled with my unyielding bonds I caught the sound of aged hinges creaking and footsteps upon a stone floor. I let my head drop, ignoring the throb of protest from my head, and feigned unconsciousness. It was either a rescuer or my assailant; either way, I thought it better to let them believe me insensible. An alert victim tends to rouse the instincts towards unnecessary violence and I had hopes that if was judged to be no threat, my bonds might be loosened in readiness for the next part of the plan. It was a slim hope, but better than nothing, which is what I already had.

The footsteps grew closer – two people so I perceived, one heavier with a limp, the other lighter and quick-footed – bringing with them a glow of light that appeared in a thin line some distance in front of me, outlining the bottom of a door. A key rattled in the lock, the door groaned on its hinges as it opened, dragging with it a mass of crisp leaf litter and rattling pebbles, and the tiny chamber was suddenly illuminated. The light, even as meagre as it was, was bright enough to make me wince and I was glad for the shadows that hid my down-turned face.

I had, however, caught sight of the person who held the candle, his identity coming as no surprise after hearing his distinctive gait. Clearly then I had been seen as a threat and, after his attempts to warn me off had failed, Ricoletti had been forced to take more drastic means. I had had that much right, even if I had misjudged the man. What I had failed to take into account was that he had had an accomplice.

The footsteps drew closer, stopping at my side, the glow intensifying as the candle was brought near my face, warming my cheek.

"Is he dead?" said Ricoletti, his voice close to my ear.

"No," said the other. "He's faking."

To prove her point, burning hot wax from the candle was dribbled onto the exposed flesh of my aching hands, with the obvious result. I blinked up at them, Ricoletti and his accomplice, Jane, the biddable and dour companion of Lady Agnes, with all the ire a man can summon when he finds himself at the mercy of his captors.

"Told you," said she. "I didn't hit him that hard. Maybe I should've done. Would've made things easier. Well, we'll soon put that to rights."

"Jane my dear," said Ricoletti, casting a dubious look in my direction, "are you sure this is necessary?"

"Now you listen to me, Wilf Pickles. When you married me you swore to do your duty by me. If I say he's gotta be killed, then that's what gotta happen. For what I done, I ain't looking at no prison. And if I'm for the high jump, so are you. Don't you forget that."

"But my dear, what if we left now? We have enough money and you have her ladyship's jewels—"

"How far d'you think we'll get, eh? They're bound to come looking for him. This old ice house ain't been used for years, but if I thought of it, so will they."

"Yes, I know," said her husband unhappily. "All the same, murder—"

"Ain't I worth it?" she retorted. "I killed old Lady Anstead for you, Wilf, and don't you forget it. Where would you be without me, eh? Pandering to the old pussies, 'do this, Jane', 'do that, Jane'. Good enough to take out their chamber pots but not good enough to sit at their tables. You wouldn't have half the reputation you have today without me listening at their doors. I bet you didn't know that, did you, Mr Private Detective Holmes," said she, sneering down at me. "I heard you, you and her ladyship plotting against my Wilf. Thought you were so clever, but we knew your little game. There was money in it all right, but it weren't coming from you."

"No, from Lord Walton," said Ricoletti. "He promised me ten thousand pounds if I give Lady Agnes a bad account of your character."

"Not that she would've believed him after what you'd been telling her," said his wife. "And we couldn't have her telling now, could we?" A sick smile settled on her features. "All it took was a little bit more of her medicine and she just went to sleep, all peaceful like. And then I leaves a note for you, saying how her ladyship wants to see you. You fell for it, all right. You didn't even hear me coming. You went down like a ruddy sack of old taters. Then me and Wilf got you outside, wheeled you over here and went back and raised the alarm."

She sniggered. "Oh, there's a pretty do back at the house now. They're saying how you murdered the old lady. Cos Wilf here has said that when he told her ladyship that you were a bad 'un she went mad and then I was able to say how I heard you and her arguing. Then there's the fact that her ladyship's jewels are missing. You see, how they figure it, when Lady Agnes told you she wasn't going to make you her heir, you got rough with her and killed her, and then made off with her jewels."

From the bag that was slung from her shoulder she produced a bulbous sack. Diamonds winked in the glow of the candlelight as she withdrew a necklace and held it in front of my eyes.

"Pretty, ain't it," she smirked. "Would've looked nice on me, wouldn't it, Wilf? Seems a shame to waste this lot, but the police are gonna be looking for these and they ain't gonna find them on me. We'll send them to one of Wilf's mates and he can lead the coppers a merry dance dropping them here and there about the country."

Had I been free, this abominable woman would not have been laughing. My insides churned with such a sense of anger that I felt I could broken free of my bonds with a mere flex of my wrist. In reality, however, I was frustrated, body and soul. I had warned Lady Agnes that there might be danger in what we had planned, but I had failed her in not anticipating that Ricoletti had been forewarned of our every move. That she had known and accepted the risks was little consolation; I had repaid her trust by depriving her of what little life she had left. Worst of all, her murderer was about to walk free, but not before compounding one crime with another.

"Sit still, you," said she, disparaging my poor efforts to struggle free of my bonds. "Now, Wilf, we ain't got much time. Lord Walton sent for the dogs to track Mr Holmes down and I don't want them finding him. Here, take this, I got this from the doctor's bag." She produced a green bottle with a bold label stating its contents as chloroform. "You knock him out with that and we'll drop him in that old disused well on the other side of the walled garden. They'll never think of looking in there, so while they're chasing him the length and breadth of the country, we'll slip out of the country as we planned." She glared at him. "Well, get on with it."

Both bottle and a wad of cloth were thrust into her husband's reluctant hands. "Jane, I'm most unhappy about this," said he.

"You were the one who didn't want no violence. This way, you get to keep your hands clean. If you love me, you'll do it, Wilf. And I do love you, you know that, don't you?"

She took his arm and smiled up at him tenderly. He responded by nodding and patting her hand with the greatest of affection. The scene would have been appealing to those of a mawkish, sentimental nature but I could not forget that the pair were planning my death.

"I know it, love," said he. "Where would I be without my Janey?"

"Still telling fortunes for a penny at time. Get on with it!"

He gave me an apologetic look. "I'm sorry it's come to this, Mr Holmes," said he, slopping a liberal dose of the liquid onto the cloth. "You should have stood down when I told you." A small laugh escaped him. "I did predict you would die by water, but I didn't think I would be the one to make it happen."

With that, he pressed the impregnated cloth over my nose and mouth. I held my breath, determined not to inhale the heady fumes. One does one's best, but the situation can only ever end one way. However strong one's lungs are, eventually, inevitably, one's natural instincts defeat the strongest resolve.

"Do not struggle," Ricoletti urged as I squirmed under his grip. "It is easier if you do not fight, Mr Holmes. Ah, that's it, breathe now, breathe in deep like a good boy, and it'll all soon be over."

And with such exhortations ringing in my ears, I succumbed again to darkness.

* * *

_**Ah-ha, who forgot that it was Ricoletti… and his abominable wife? Not DraejonSoul - well done to you! And to Eyebrows2 for guessing what Ricoletti was up to! As for being abominable, I think Jane certainly qualifies! So into the well he goes and we're back to where we came in with the prologue. How on earth will Mr Holmes get out of this???**_

_**Continued in Chapter Eighteen!**_


	19. Chapter Eighteen

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Eighteen: Ding Dong Dell**

Had the water not been so cold and Ricoletti inexperienced in the use of chloroform to subdue his victims, I do not doubt that I should have drowned.

The pair had taken no chances: a chain around my ankles was attached to some great weight on the other end, which dragged me down below the water's surface. One reads stories about drowning men seeing their lives flashing before them, and in my case, it appeared to be so short and uninteresting that some attempt had to be made to increase its length.

They say Providence watches over certain of us, and I could only assume that this dirty little well with its foul water was not intended to be my final resting place. With my lungs burning and what precious air I had escaping in streams of bubbles in ever decreasing numbers to the surface, that I was able to kick my shoes away and pull my feet free of the chain is something I can attribute either to good fortune or sheer and utter desperation.

I made it to the surface, never easy with one's hands bound, just in time to see the well cover hauled back into place, blotting out the thin rays of moonlight some twenty feet above. Something heavy was dropped into place, its echo reverberating around the circular walls with a volume painful to the ear, and thus I was sealed in my watery tomb.

If rescue had been desirable before, it most certainly was necessary now. Treading water while I considered what to do kept the cold at bay for the time being, and, now I had cast the gag from my mouth, I was able to breathe freely. But I knew it was not a situation that could continue indefinitely. The temperature was near freezing and the water played a constant game of mischief with me, some times lying low, at others rising up and slopping over my head. My teeth were chattering and I had swallowed enough of the foetid water to ensure that, should I survive, a few uncomfortable days lay ahead even if I managed to avoid getting cholera.

The problem was that no one knew where I was. Miles, if he could extract himself from Mrs Canning's side long enough to be concerned, was a forlorn hope. He would have no cause to investigate a disused well in an overgrown corner of the garden, much less expect his maligned cousin to be found shivering at the bottom of it. The police, following their usual shambolic procedure – and I did not doubt that someone had thought to send for them by now – would be concentrating their search for me, an alleged thief and murderer, away from the house, believing that I had made good my escape. They would look for me at the railway stations and ports, never thinking that my drowned corpse was under their noses all the time.

Once again, I saw that I would have to make my own plans – and hoped that I was a good deal more successful in my bid for freedom than last time. I faced the same difficulties as before with my bound hands, and now with the added complication of water and impending hypothermia. My hands were shaking so much that I could gain no purchase on the ropes around my wrists with my teeth, and tied as I was, with my palms facing inwards, I had scant chance of reaching the knots with my fingers.

My next priority, if I could not free myself, was to get clear of the water before I became so cold I no longer cared. The distance between one wall and the opposite was too great for me to brace myself between them and work my way up. In the dark, I investigated the ancient walls, groping for a hand or foot-hold to give me some leverage and my aching legs a rest. Every now and then I found a brick protruding from the wall, but years of accumulated slime made them slippery. When I did manage to dig my nails into the dirt and find some slight purchase, the brick would crumble under my weight, plunging us both into the depths.

There comes a point in this game when one has been forced to take yet another mouthful of water and disappear below the surface for what feels like the hundredth time that the innate instinct for survival, usually so vital and insistent, starts to wane. Why struggle, it says, when up against a foe one can never defeat? What with the cold and scant hope of rescue or escape, it is a persuasive argument.

If I had listened, however, I should not have come up for air, scrabbled for the wall and found a hole where I had dislodged a brick. I hooked my fingers in the gap and hung there, a sodden bat in a chamber of eternal night, feeling what little remained of my reason ebbing away with the weight of my clothes and my will to live drowning in the gurgling, lapping waters around my waist.

I was dying, that much was certain, defeated by a charlatan who made his own predictions come true with the assistance of his abomination of a wife, who thought nothing of killing vulnerable, ill old women to get what she wanted. I knew it, but my brain would not register the fact. Instead, it took me to places dimly remembered from childhood, of winter days and ruddy cheeks, and Mycroft telling me what a bore I was and locking me in a closet because I had done something yet again to annoy him.

On reflection, that seemed to be a pattern we had settled into as soon as I was able to walk. Mycroft was surprising easy to annoy and could be relied upon for a pleasing reaction, even if my confinement to wardrobes and trunks as a result of his ire was less desirable. I wondered if I annoyed him still, if he would be annoyed when he heard I had vanished after murdering Lady Agnes and making off with her jewels. Except this time, he would not be able to dish out his usual punishment. If only he know that I had ended up in a place more secure than the airing cupboard or the dark room beneath the stairs.

At least I would not have to hear him brag about how he had anticipated this outcome and remind me yet again of how he thought I was wasting my talents. Strange though, how those things that irritate us most when they are readily to hand will cause nostalgic longing when far removed. Teetering on the edge of extinction, my only comfort was that Mycroft would know the truth and in my absence do what I could not: bring Ricoletti to justice. Langdale Pike would publish his account, Ricoletti might be persuaded to tell of my death and this well would be forced to give up my bones. Perhaps even Lestrade would find his thief and stolen _brayette_. The world would go on without me – and all because of that accursed chiromancer.

I put my frustration into words and the well shaft rang with what little voice I was able to summon. It is rare that I let my emotions get the better of me, but if the occasion of one's drowning does not warrant a thorough denunciation of one's murderer, then I do not know when is. The effect was fleetingly pleasing, but did nothing to ameliorate my situation. So when my fingers finally slipped and I fell back into the water, it seemed the most natural thing in the world not to fight but to drift beneath a suffocating sea of slime and die quietly in the darkness on a date that my brain was too addled to remember and my life counted in years that seemed irrelevant.

So should my career have come to an end but for the arc of moonlight that suddenly painted itself across the water and the muffled cry of a familiar voice calling my name. I almost did not respond, being too tired to care and resigned to my fate. But as there appeared to be no rest for either the wicked or me, I forced myself back to the surface. High above, the well cover had been pulled back and the upper half of a man was silhouetted against the bright disc of the moon.

"Sherlock, are you down there?"

I managed to croak a reply and added a feeble wave for good measure.

"Yes, I thought it might be you," Miles shouted down, his voice carrying that usual measure of disgruntlement he tended to adopt when forced to break his routine to help a soul in need. "Stay there. I'll fetch a rope."

Quite where he thought I would go was not a matter I wished to debate. Since he had made the effort to find me, the least I could do was to oblige his interest by treading water for a little longer. Soon enough his shape reappeared above me, in his hands a thick length of rope with the remains of a bucket still attached to one end. I saw him make a loop of the rope and knot it. I heard him call down that I should place it about my shoulders so he could pull me up. And then nothing happened. He stood there, rope in hand for what seemed like an age, waiting for what I could not say.

"Miles?" I called up. "Miles!"

My words spurred him into action. The rope snaked down and I was able to secure it around me before the pressure increased and I was hauled free of the water. With every inch, I neared that precious circle of night with its glimpse of the star-sprinkled heavens and the glow of a winter's moon until finally I reached the top. Too enfeebled by the cold to stand, I collapsed to my knees and indulged in a few painful moments of retching up well water. Miles did not attempt to intervene, but stood quietly watching me, breathing heavily from his exertions, his arms folded and his expression thoughtful.

"Better?" he asked when my coughing had subsided.

I nodded. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he replied flatly.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I followed the tracks and, ding dong dell, Sherlock was in the well."

"Tracks?"

"The marks left by a laden wheelbarrow when pushed by a man with a club foot. All very distinctive, my dear boy. After the hue and cry that was raised when Lady Agnes was found dead and you missing, I thought you might have been in… trouble." Something of his good humour returned in the tight smile he gave me as he extended a hand and helped me to my feet. "You know, if you intend to make it your life's work to right the wrongs done to other people, then you really should take a few precautions. The life of a detective is bound to be a perilous one."

I stared hard at him. "You know?"

"That you are some sort of private detective, yes, I am aware of that fact. Langdale Pike was kind enough to tell me. Oh, you are surprised? Then you've learnt a timely lesson about never trusting a journalist with anything that you don't want other people to know. You didn't think you could keep it a secret from me forever, did you?"

"Apparently not."

"That you thought you could suggests a reckless sense of arrogance. You underestimate people, Sherlock. That will be your undoing if you aren't careful." He took in my appearance and shook his head. "Look at you. Your waistcoat will never be white again. What a waste of good tailoring." He took off his own coat and slipped it around my shoulders. "Come, let us get you out of this wind before you catch your death of cold. Besides, you have some explaining to do."

Half-staggering, half-walking, and clinging to Miles's arm for support, I allowed him to lead the way to a shed positioned against the north side of the walled garden. Miles tried the door and muttered something uncharitable when he found it locked. He stooped to examine the lock and a moment later it was open, he explaining that it had been stuck. He pulled me inside, sat me down on a stool and started investigating the drawers and cupboards. With a cry of satisfaction, he found what he was looking for, a bottle of some indeterminate liquor, and, filling a metal beaker, he then forced it into my shaking hands.

"Scotch," said he. "It is a rare gardener indeed who does not keep a little something to keep out the cold. Drink it. It will revive those flagging spirits of yours."

Liquid fire scorched a trail down my throat, near choking me in the process. Miles busied himself with lighting a cigarette and dropping the match into a metal brazier filled by the absent gardener with old newspaper in readiness for his next visit. The flame caught and its meagre warm soon began to seep into my frozen flesh.

"The reason we're here," Miles explained, slicing the cords away from my wrists with a garden knife, "is because if I take you back to the house, you will almost certainly be arrested and hauled off to some godforsaken police cell before we get a chance to talk." His expression became serious. "Certainly we need to do so, cousin."

"The police are here then?"

"Yes, and running about like headless chickens as usual. They don't know whether to look for you in heaven or in hell; it's really quite amusing. We have a little time before they find their way over to the gardens. I say we use it profitably."

"Won't you be missed?"

"I find myself in the position of being _persona non grata_. They questioned me – did I know where you where? Obviously not. Where was I when the 'incident' occurred – that sort of thing. All very unimaginative."

"Naturally you had an alibi."

"Yes, I did. Mrs Canning was kind enough to confirm that I had been with her the whole evening. We were—"

"Don't tell me, I can imagine."

"Unjust, cousin. My reputation precedes me in many things, but on this occasion it has lead you to an erroneous conclusion. We were playing cards in matter of fact." He smiled somewhat salaciously. "Losing to Mrs Canning is a delight. You should try it."

"Thank you, Miles. I have other concerns at the moment."

"Yes, an accusation of murder is liable to be distracting. You have my sympathies."

"I didn't kill her, Miles. Ricoletti did this. He and his wife, the companion, Jane."

"I thought that might be the case." He caught me gazing at him in confusion. "You didn't notice the way he steadfastly refused to look at her during the evening? I thought at first it was embarrassment – the lower classes will never be comfortable with the notion of being served – but when she refused to look at him, I began to have my doubts. Now you tell me they are married, well, that explains everything. Only people who have been manacled together for some length of time are able to exercise that level of disdain in one another's presence, a practice, one supposes, borne out of necessity. But do go on."

I told him all I had learned that evening and more, of the plan Lady Agnes and I formulated to trap Ricoletti, of Walton's promise to pay him for an unfavourable account of my character, of Jane's admission that she had poisoned her mistress, of her pride in assisting her husband to the position he currently held by dispatching Lady Anstead, and finally how I had come to end up at the bottom of a disused well. Miles listened with a grave expression and, when I had finished, took the metal cup, refilled it and downed the contents in one.

"Is now the time to get drunk?" I said, watching him with disapproval.

"There was never a better time," he retorted. "One should never attempt to listen to a tale like that stone cold sober. Now, Sherlock, what am I do with you?"

"Help me expose them as murderers."

"Would you think me impertinent if I made a suggestion? Only, there is a minor detail in all this that seems to have escaped your attention, namely a small matter of proof. I believe the courts are fairly insistent on it these days."

"Miles, they confessed!"

"I could say that I'd swum the Channel, but it wouldn't make it true. Where's your evidence, my dear boy?"

"I have the evidence of my own ears."

"And we are supposed to take your word for it? What will you say? That Lord Walton, a respected member of Her Majesty's Government, promised to pay a fellow to have your chances of gaining his aunt-in-law's fortune scuppered? Do you think he will ever admit as much on the witness stand? If you do, you're a greater fool than I imagined."

"The murder of Lady Agnes, then, and Lady Anstead."

"Prove it."

"Jane admitted that she gave her an overdose of her medicine."

"A mistake that any dying woman suffering mortal agonies might make. As for Lady Anstead, her death was not unexpected; ask anyone. Qui bono, they will ask? If Ricoletti gained a reputation by this prediction, then that was all he got. Her fortune went to an orphanage and the seaman's mission. No, Sherlock, you have nothing but unfounded accusations, which is entirely to be expected. Look at it from their point of view. You have been found out and are seeking to place the blame on other, seemingly innocent, people. You _say_ that Lady Agnes was in full agreement with your plan – but she is dead and cannot confirm your story. Set against that are two witnesses, one who will swear that Lady Agnes had changed her mind about making you her heir and the other who has said that you were heard arguing with her. With the greatest of respect, cousin, you appear to have had a very good motive for wishing your prospective benefactress dead."

"How did I do it?"

"You've just told me. You tampered with her medicine." Miles shook his head. "Sherlock, you do not seem to realise what a precarious situation you've made for yourself. I don't suppose you would consider fleeing the country? No, I thought not. Still, they might spare your neck, although what will be left to you after all is said and done might not be worth the saving."

"Miles, I have to tell this to the police."

"If you do, it will be your word against theirs. You seem to forget, cousin, you are nothing. I'm sorry to be blunt but you hail from a minor scion of an insignificant family of landless country squires, without position or money to your name. For heaven's sake, leave before they put you in prison and throw away the key."

"It will not come to that. I have friends."

"So does Ricoletti; the difference is that his are bought. I've always considered the exchange of money to be a far more reliable assurance of loyalty than all the fine words about the quality of friendship."

When I told him the name of the person who, through Mycroft, had initially set me on Ricoletti's trail, he seemed mildly taken aback.

"My, you have been busy," he said approvingly. "But do not rely on him to speak up for you publicly. He will not risk either his position or the reputation of the government to save your neck. In fact, all things being equal, cousin, I predict that this affair will never come to court."

I leapt to my feet. "No, I cannot accept that!"

"You will have to," said he soothingly. "You certainly will not be permitted to cause a scandal. Too many people have a vested interest in keeping this matter a secret. Put Ricoletti in the dock and who knows what he might say?"

"But they're nothing but lies, all these so-called predictions of his."

"True, but there's an old saying – there's no smoke without fire. Careers and lives have been ruined over much less before now."

"Very well. Then what of the attempt on my life?"

Miles shrugged. "Who's to say you didn't fall in that well?"

"After tying myself up and then managing to replace the cover?"

"Your story would have had more substance if it hadn't been me who found you. But needs must, and you should count yourself lucky that I didn't wait for the police or Walton. He would certainly have left you down there. As it stands, they may conclude that I was involved in this grand scheme with you and that we invented this whole business of you being trapped in the well. What an appalling thought."

"Are you saying that we do nothing and let Ricoletti go free?"

"I did not say that," said he thoughtfully. "He will be ruined, have no fear. It will become one of those open secrets that serve so well to keep us honest. It's poor Langdale I feel sorry for; he'll never be able to publish his story now. Not that he told any details, but from the hints he was dropping and what you've just told me, it doesn't take much imagination to realise what he meant. The charge of murder will never stand. I imagine Ricoletti will be _persuaded_ to confess to a lesser charge with a light sentence."

"Persuaded?"

Miles nodded. "And if he's sensible, he'll agree. Once word gets out, there'll be any number of people after his hide. You did say his real name was Wilf Pickles? Well, it shouldn't be too hard to find someone with a grudge from his former life. A few years in prison and people might forget – if natural justice doesn't overtake him first. As for his wife, would a conviction for theft mollify that wounded pride of yours?"

Nothing but a conviction for the murders of Lady Anstead and Lady Agnes Markham would ever suffice, but I had to acknowledge the wisdom of Miles's words. I had been warned that making the case a _cause célèbre_ was undesirable and, as much as I would have liked to denounce Ricoletti in open court and expose him for the fraud and criminal he was, I saw too that it would never happen. A lesser charge would have to do for now. When he was released, however, I would be waiting. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake that would put him back in prison for the rest of his life.

For the present, I saw a problem with Miles's reasoning. "Aren't you forgetting a small matter of proof?"

"Oh, I shall make sure the police find Lady Agnes's jewels amongst dear Jane's possessions," said he, giving me a wry smile. "It won't be the first time a servant has helped herself to her mistress's diamonds."

"You know where they are?" Miles's ability to surprise me was becoming an unpleasant habit, and my response, as ever, was one of bemused disbelief. "Why didn't you say before? You weren't going to keep them surely?"

"Really, cousin, what do you take me for? Stealing from old women is hardly my style. I found the jewels before I found you, under a flower pot in the old glasshouse. When the footprints diverted, I was naturally curious and they led me to the hidden horde. Come, Sherlock," said he, patting my shoulder consolingly, "no long faces. You'll have to spend a night in prison but I'm sure that influential friend of yours will intervene and have you set free before too long. No doubt this isn't the tidy conclusion you would have liked, but nothing in life is ever perfect." He grinned and tossed his spent cigarette into the brazier. "Except, that is, perhaps me."

* * *

_**Thank goodness for Miles, he turned up in the nick of time! But is this case over? Not quite yet...**_

_**Contin**__**ued in Chapter Nineteen!**_


	20. Chapter Nineteen

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Nineteen: Judgement**

Miles's prediction proved to be astute. A good many accusations were thrown around that night, mostly levelled at me on the grounds of my being a thief and a murderer, and a charge of complicity against Miles, which he took in good humour and countered with a suggestion that a search of the bedrooms might be in order. The inspector in charge of the debacle, an unprepossessing man with a vacant expression by the name of Sidebottom, who had thus far proved himself to be of limited imagination and largely untroubled by an over-active intellect, threw himself into the task with gusto and it was not long before a bag of jewels was found in the possession of Lady Agnes's companion.

Any doubts that there was more to this case "than what met the eye", as Inspector Sidebottom so eloquently put it, were dispelled when Jane bit the constable charged with the task of detaining her and tried to make a run for it. The waters were further muddied by my revelation that Ricoletti was really Mr Wilfred Pickles, the allegedly deceased husband of Mrs Jane Pickles. Declaring that "there was something fishy about the whole caper", Sidebottom had arrested all three of us and had said he would deal with us in the morning after a good night's sleep.

I assumed he meant after _he_ had had slept, for there was no peace for me that night. I paid for my time in the well with violent and crippling nausea. By the time morning came, I was in no fit state for anything, let alone an interview with an ecclesiastical-looking man, all spectacles and gaiters, who was introduced to me as Sir Sidney Perrin.

That he was a stranger to the local constabulary was evidenced by the stir his presence caused that morning in the police station. My suspicion was proved correct when he informed me he had been sent by a 'friend' to deal with the matter. Miles's promise to alert my brother of my predicament had had the desired effect and, while Sidebottom had slept and I re-acquainted myself with my evening meal, the wheels had turned and produced this government official with his incongruous waxed moustache and Whitehall whiskers.

I told him my story, to which he listened with polite interest, before suggesting that the events of last night as I had described them had never taken place. Dr Wendell, Lady Agnes's physician, had confirmed that his patient had been in very poor health and her death had been expected at any time. An inquest, so Perrin told me, was not necessary in this case, as there was nothing to suggest suspicious circumstances. In the case of Lady Anstead, too long dead to be troubled from her grave, I was assured that she too had also died from natural causes and, since no one had benefitted financially from her death save certain charitable institutions, foul play was not suspected.

As for me, Perrin was keen to offer his commiserations on the death of my benefactress. As far as anyone around the table that night was concerned, Lady Agnes had been confused, a lamentable result of her illness, and any public revelation that she had tried to disinherit her niece in my favour would only serve to tarnish the poor lady's good name. It would never be mentioned again, said he, and it would be in my best interests to discontinue my foray into society, at least until what he described as "natural wastage" had thinned both the numbers and memories.

I had no problem with abandoning my career as society butterfly – that had never been my intention in the first place. What did concern me was that two murders were to go unpunished. Perrin had neatly avoided my question by stating that no crime had been committed; even the theft of Lady Agnes's jewellery had been explained away by her companion's practice of keeping the items under close guard at all times.

There was, however, an outstanding warrant for the arrest of a Mr and Mrs Wilfred Pickles in Limerick on a charge of fraud and peddling quack medicines. An elderly widow, blind since birth, had paid vast sums of money to a couple who had assured her that her sight would be restored with their so-called patent tonic. The husband had read her palm and told her one day she would see again. The tonic was then recommended to accelerate the process. The poor woman had gladly paid more than five thousand pounds for what was little more than sugar water with an infusion of lavender. The couple were long gone by the deception was discovered and, as the widow had not been able to describe them, once Pickles had come to London and changed his name to Ricoletti, the police had held out little hope of finding him.

This then was the lesser charge that Miles had anticipated. For Perrin it was a satisfactory conclusion. The pair would be taken back to Limerick to answer the charge, to which both had already admitted their guilt of their own volition, and that was an end of the matter. The trial was a formality and there would be no scandal. Ricoletti would simply disappear. The space he would leave was already being filled by a Madame Strauss, who held séances in which she laughed a great deal, resulting in her title of 'The Happy Medium'. With a new diversion, the chiromancer would be forgotten, but not by me.

By the time I was well enough to return to London, matters had long since overtaken me. Ricoletti and his wife, or properly the Pickles, were on their way to Ireland to begin their prison sentences. The gathering at Easton Court had gone back to their respective homes in possession of what they had been told was the truth and sworn to secrecy out of respect for a woman succumbed to strange fancies in her closing days.

The papers were silent too. Langdale Pike had gone back to providing his readers with the usual diet of gossip and the latest court fashions. He had been muzzled, but whether this was on Miles's advice or by one of those 'persuasive' forces Perrin represented was not immediately obvious. Pike held no grudge against me, and although he would have to wait a while longer to make his name, our relationship flourished in time into one of mutual co-operation. As Miles had taught me, the press was a very useful thing, if one knew how to use it.

My own departure from the police station was viewed as a travesty of justice, certainly by Inspector Sidebottom, who tugged at his beard and declared that in his opinion I would "come to a bad end". I asked him whether he considered death by water to be bad enough. This confused him, and led to his assertion that "hanging was too good for me", although why and for what crime he was at a loss to say. On the whole, I was never so glad to be back at Montague Street, albeit five pounds lighter in weight, my career and reputation in tatters and Lady Agnes's murder troubling my conscience.

There was another matter too. I was loath to address it, yet clearly it could not be allowed to continue unchecked. I knew what was expected of me, but whether it was the _right_ thing to do was another matter. Before I acted, I needed to talk to Miles. And that meant finding him first.

He was absent from his rooms at Mayfair when I called, as was his valet. His neighbour, a man with eyes so red that one could see the blood pulsating through them, told me that he had not seen him since his return from the Cotswolds on Saturday afternoon two days ago. Miles had effected yet another of his disappearing acts, except this time I had a fairly good idea of where he had gone to ground.

The Albany – prefaced with or without the definite article depending on the inclination of individual – had been providing comfortable bachelor accommodation to rakes, roués and respectable gentlemen alike for nigh on sixty years by the time I appeared on its elegant doorstep. The building, a stone's throw from the Royal Academy, itself no longer the centre of attention since the investigation into the jewel thefts had stalled, lay back from the road in a quiet close, by-passed by the bourdon throb of the traffic shuffling along Piccadilly.

The problem of discovering which room was his was easily resolved by my passing the concierge a note addressed to Mr Miles Holmes and watching him place it in a room-numbered pigeon-hole. Then, when the man's back was turned, I slipped past him, took a key from the hook, and hurried upstairs to Miles's private sanctum.

In some respect, the room was something of a revelation. Miles left to his own devices displayed a pleasing disdain for personal tidiness that made my own carefully-cultivated mess pall by comparison. It was not that the room contained anything shabby or inexpensive, but it was comfortable in a way that can only be produced by years of indolent experience. It was everything a grown man could wish for, whether in terms of the tobacco set close at hand in a ginger jar, the tantalus unlocked and within arm's reach, and a table doubling as a footstool with an impressive array of scuffs and knocks only achievable in a home where the will of a wife did not prevail.

The armchair too, a brown leather monstrosity that had seen better days, was gloriously comfortable, moulded by long use to its owner's body-shape, so that it wrapped about the sitter like a favourite dressing gown. I was less surprised to find books ranged in untidy rows along one wall as Madame de Mont St Jean had alerted me to his interests. An inspection of the titles revealed a curious mix of the profound and the profane, much like their absent owner, a Janus torn between saint and sinner. It was with regret that I realised I still did not understand Miles or why he chose to live this life of two halves, divided between society's expectations and his own inclinations, and perhaps never would.

Not knowing when he would be back, I helped myself to a book from Miles's collection with the dubious title of _The Lives and Loves of the Caesars_ and settled myself into the armchair to await his return. I did not have long to wait. The clock had chimed the half hour when the door opened and Miles entered, dressed in black mourning. If he was taken aback by my presence, seated in his chair, reading his books and drinking his best sherry, he did not register the fact. Instead, he pulled the coat from his shoulders, threw it over the couch and regarded me with studied weariness.

"They released you then," said he.

"As you said they would."

"Brother Mycroft worked his usual wonders, no doubt."

"With a little help from others, I should imagine."

He ambled over to the decanter and poured himself a large whisky. I gave him time to down it and help himself to a cigarette, watching as he tossed the burned-down match into a large metal vessel, flat-based and shaped like a blunted oblong, before asking him where he had been.

"Theo's funeral was this morning. We were a sad collection of souls."

His gaze travelled to the window. Spring was finally shouldering off the stubborn vestiges of winter, and the sunlight shafting through the glass brought with it heat enough to warm where it touched.

"It should have rained. Funerals, I think, should always be conducted in the rain. Funerals… and executions. It seems fitting somehow." He fell for a moment into a brown study before directing his dull gaze in my direction. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

What I had to say required care. I did not want to address the matter outright, perhaps because I retained some faint hope that I was mistaken.

"I have a problem, Miles. I needed to see you about it."

"You've proved yourself more than capable of dealing with your own problems. All would appear to be in your favour. You have your chiromancer under lock and key… and now you've come for me."

Not knowing how he had discerned my purpose made me slow to answer, and when I did I was scarcely able to string a decent sentence together. Miles held up his hand and put an end to my confusion.

"No, no, Sherlock, let us be reasonable about this. I must confess I have been expecting this for some time. I knew that the time had come when George handed me this note." He brandished the blank piece of paper I had given the concierge. "A word of advice, cousin. If you do not wish to alarm your victims into flight, I suggest you come up with something more original than this. You could not have announced your presence any louder had you trumpeted it from the rooftops."

I conceded that the gesture had been ill-judged. It lacked my usual finesse, as had many of my deeds and actions of late. Miles had that effect on me. But I could not place all the blame with him, for I could not discount that it had been deliberate on my part. Perhaps I had wanted him to flee. It would have been easier on us both.

That Miles, however, had no intention of making the situation easy was evident by his settling himself on the sofa, propping a cushion behind his back and putting his feet up. As acts of insolent defiance went, I found myself grudgingly admiring the sheer gall of the man.

"Now, cousin, you have something to say. Do go on. I'm sure your narrative will prove most interesting."

"What is there to say, Miles? You're a thief."

"Slander, my dear boy?" Miles tutted. "Well, I suppose it is to be expected. When one leads an interesting life, speculation is bound to occur. 'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny'. I dare say that is as true today as when the Bard put quill to parchment. In any case, aren't you forgetting something?"

"If you mean proof, do we need to look any further than this?"

I nudged the object, currently home to his growing collection of speckled ash and spent matches, around to face him. It stood between us on the table, a proud if impertinent eight inches of engraved and gilded metal.

"An ash tray?" said Miles, raising a questioning eyebrow. Even faced with the evidence of his crimes, he remained unrepentant.

"It's the _brayette_ stolen from the Royal Academy on the night of the ball."

"Is it really? I shall have to take your word for it. What would I know of such things?"

"I think you know a great deal. You owe me an explanation."

"No, cousin, what you seek is a confession. Now, let us say, for argument's sake, that I was this thief of yours. It would be very foolish of me to make any rash statements when all you have is a tin toy bought in all innocence."

"In innocence, you say. Do you have a receipt?"

Miles made an apologetic gesture. "The man approached me in the street. I did not know him and he did not offer his name. Would I like to buy it, he asked. Well, at five shillings, I thought it worth the price asked. I was not to know it had a dubious provenance."

It was the worst story I had ever heard, and we both knew it to be a lie. In its favour, the tale of how he came by the _brayette_ was extraordinary enough to be true, more so than my laughable theories about how my ineffable cousin happened to be one of the most skilled thieves in London.

He smiled at my irritation. "Come now, Sherlock, there is no shame in defeat when the opponents are equally matched. From what I read in the papers, I understand it was a masterful performance. The thief, whoever he is, must be an exceptional one."

"That I do not deny. I would not have suspected but for that night at the well."

"Gave himself away, did he?"

"It was the gardener's shed that finally convinced me."

"Ah, you mean the locked door."

"Yes. You picked it, didn't you, Miles?"

He eyed me with amusement and said nothing.

"Such skills aren't usually required by gentlemen of means, unless for gaining entrance to their lovers' homes." Miles had the decency to look a little affronted by my remark, and I continued before he had the chance to make some repost about my impudence. "To open a lock so quickly spoke of experience, nerve too, especially to do so in front of me, aware as you were of my interest. But then you displayed that same nerve the night you broke in to the Royal Academy. Your skill was undoubted, for the traces you left behind of your activities were minute. As for locking the doors behind you…"

"A very thoughtful thief," Miles observed dryly. "Who knows who might have wandered in and helped themselves?"

"By then, I was wondering about other things too. Your lies about where you had been the night of the ball, where you had got the money for Fairfax and about your having rooms here at the Albany. I knew you must have had another refuge in London, because Madame de Mont St Jean told me of your love of books."

"Ah, Célestine, beautiful but indiscreet!"

"Yet there were no books at your Mayfair rooms. Nor did it seem to fit with your character. You strive to appear superficial, but in fact you are as cunning as a fox."

His eyes twinkled with mischief. "You seem to think I'm cleverer than I am."

"No, Miles, you are supremely intelligent. That you choose to conceal it and squander your talents in this way is a senseless waste."

"That is ungenerous of you, Sherlock. First you accuse me of burglary, and now you attempt to batter my sensibilities with the deathly hand of middle-class morality. What have I done to deserve such foul treatment?"

He fixed me with a level, challenging stare, but I would not be intimidated.

"The Diadem, I want it back."

"Do you now? How do you propose to get it?"

"I know it's here somewhere. I'll tear the place apart if I have to. I would prefer that you gave it to me."

"You presume that I have it."

"You know you do."

"Then by handing it over, I would be admitting to the crime."

"This _brayette_ already proves that."

It was a very poor bluff, and one that had Miles chuckling merrily. "Have you _actually_ examined this petty piece of evidence of which you are so proud? You tell me that it belonged to King Henry VIII, yet the thing you have there is not yet a hundred years old. It's a copy, probably made to replace the original worn out by generations of curious fingers. There's a story about its efficacy in curing infertility, did you know?"

"Is that why you took it? Because it was a forgery?"

"Your thief strikes me as being something of a connoisseur. Now imagine the scene: he has what he came for and then he espies a glass case covered by a velvet cloth with an absurd little notice warning about its contents. Naturally he looks and what he sees raises his ire. He throws caution to the window and smashes the glass, for time is pressing." He hesitated. "Had events not overtaken him, I'm sure he would have returned it, anonymously, by way of an expert who would have confirmed that the _brayette_ was not a piece of authentic Tudor metalwork."

"Would the death of a friend be such an event?"

Miles inclined his head. "One may lose heart under such circumstances. That is no doubt why he took to the streets and sold it to the first person he met, in this case me."

"Describe him."

"My dear Sherlock, I can scarce remember what I did yesterday, let alone what some fellow looked like days ago," he said, chuckling. "Besides, I quite agree with him. If there is offence, then it is men like Rodney-Ware who have given it, by duping the fee-paying public into accepting a poor copy as the genuine article."

"Yet by your own admission, only a connoisseur would know the difference."

"Any fool could tell you that was a replacement. Use your eyes, Sherlock! Look at the depth of the engraving, as crisp as the day it was made, and then tell me it is over 300 years old. That never adorned the person of His Royal Majesty. If you ask me, it serves a better purpose now than that intended for it."

"And what of the Diadem? And Mrs Farintosh's opal tiara? What purpose have you assigned to them?"

Miles smiled. "Ah, Mrs Farintosh, a most winning woman with an unfortunate weakness for the gaming tables. But you are mistaken if you believe your thief meant the dear lady any harm. As with the _brayette_, he knew the tiara was a fake. It was obvious what she had done. By removing it, the thief knew she would be compensated for her loss and so be able to redeem her debts."

I stared at him. "You _weren't_ intending to expose her?"

"_I_ should not, but then we aren't talking about me, are we? Your thief must have been put out when he read in the papers that the tiara had turned up again after he had gone to such trouble on the lady's behalf. Was it you, cousin, who advised her how to extricate herself from the awkward situation? I did wonder when I saw mention of a certain Inspector Lestrade in connection with the case, and your reaction just now proves it. Let me see, in your place, I would have advised that she redeemed her jewels before the dreaded exposure took place."

"Yes, that is exactly what I did."

"My meddling little cousin. What is it they say about the best laid plans?"

"Where is the fake tiara now?"

"Probably at the bottom of the Thames – does it matter?"

"It does if the Diadem is with it."

"I should say it is not. Your thief is a connoisseur, after all, not a philistine. Destroying a thing of beauty would not fit with his sense of morality. He would steal to help a friend, yet he goes to great pains to expose fraud."

"And murder too. Lestrade told me about the Cambridge Mummy case."

"Indeed." Miles smiled and rose to pour himself another drink. "Well, we have played battledore and shuttlecock with these theories of yours for long enough. What is your next move?"

"I cannot allow you to continue."

"_Allow_?" he echoed. "Good heavens, you sound like your brother. He said he could not allow me to continue, not with my studies when he discovered I was intending to sell a dusty old book that no one would ever have missed to pay off my debts. So very pious in his disapproval, he had the gall to lecture me about right and wrong. 'The fundamentals of justice are that no one shall suffer wrong, and that the public good be served'. As if I didn't know my Cicero."

"You lied."

"Yes, I did, didn't I? Perhaps I did not want to disappoint you."

I did not believe he had been content simply to disillusion me about Mycroft. When I thought back to that night at the well, something that had happened there now began to make more sense.

"You hesitated before you threw me that rope. Why?"

He took a moment to stare at the contents of his glass as he marshalled his thoughts.

"I was wondering whether I could stand by and watch you drown. I must confess I was tempted. You were becoming a nuisance, and I was certain that you already suspected the truth. At the dinner table, I caught you looking at me, and I knew. Your expression was that of a man awoken to revelation. Then there was Mycroft to consider. When he was dispensing his own brand of justice, I told him that there would come a day when he needed something from me, and when that time came we would settle our account. Well, that day came. He gave me you in payment, and what a poisoned chalice you proved to be."

I started from my chair. "Miles, what are you saying?"

"Quite simply, Sherlock, that your brother has played us both like seaside marionettes. He sent you to do what he could not, namely to destroy me. He's too much the coward for that. For myself, I do not mind so much. I have only myself to blame. The Royal Academy was a foolish mistake; a man should not sully his own doorstep. But I needed the money, and it was convenient."

"You admit it then?"

"I don't see why not. It so happens that I'm very good at what I do. A man should take pride in his work, and you must admit that the theft of the Diadem was well done."

"Yes, it was."

"I was taught by the best, you see. After I left Oxford, I had the good fortune to share a railway carriage with an accomplished burglar, a few days out of prison and looking for an apprentice. I was an excellent student."

"The man who is now your valet."

Miles nodded. "Algernon said he fancied that ferret-faced inspector had recognised him. He has gone now. We agreed it was best that he leave. As for me, Célestine tells me she is forsaking London for Paris. I shall go with her."

"What if I stop you?"

"No, Sherlock, I don't think you shall. You will not allow yourself to be your brother's puppet. I hope if nothing else I have taught you that much. That alone is repayment enough for me. That is why I could not let you die. Mycroft would have been wounded but once by your death. Every day you live and defy him, I shall be content."

"What if I happen to agree with him?"

"Then call the police. I do not care. I suspect, however, that you have made up your own mind about the business. You want the Diadem returned. I want to retain my liberty. A Judgement of Solomon is required of you, cousin. Are you equal to the task?"

"Compromise?"

"No, sacrifice. The question is, what are you prepared to sacrifice in order to get what you want? You cannot have it both ways. In retrospect, I could have talked my way out of a difficult situation, stayed on at college and never had this life. I realise now how much I would have missed if not for your brother. I owe him that much. That is why I give you back to him, a man rather than the callow youth he sent to me. I am glad he caught me in my innocence, as I have caught you in yours. You will never make this mistake again. But it will cost you."

"What do you propose?"

"That what has passed between us remains a secret. You will have your Diadem, and I shall leave England and never return. It will be no hardship for me. Now Theo is dead, London holds too many memories and too few comforts. Think carefully – what you have is little enough to go on and would never place me in the dock. But I would not have Célestine think ill of me. People do talk so. Whatever I have done, I have never knowingly hurt another soul. Can you say the same of Mycroft?"

I could not. What Miles had said was true. Mycroft had engineered my meeting with Miles, knowing of his past history, probably knowing that he had continued with his crimes, and in the certain knowledge that I too would discover them. Because of him, what was being asked of me was as much an anathema to my soul as was Ricoletti and his wife going unpunished for the deaths of two women. There was no excuse for what Miles had done. I hated that he had chosen this life and was forcing me to accept his terms, but I did not hate him. That was the difference, and why I could not turn him over to the police.

"Give up this life," I urged. "Return the Diadem and I shall say nothing, but do not continue. One day you will be found out, and then it will be prison."

"I cannot," he returned. "Could you give up your life? Personally, I find the thought of a member of the family being in trade quite humiliating. Promise me you will never advertise your services in the newspapers. I could not live with the shame. I would never try to dissuade you from your chosen career, however, for I hold that a man must follow his own nature. And I have every confidence that you will thrive."

With that, he reached out and grasped my shoulder. I was sure I saw the gleam of moisture in his eyes.

"It has been an honour to know you, cousin. Were my brothers like you, I would be proud."

I could not summon up a reply.

"Come, now, Sherlock. Do not flinch at the moment of decision. Be no Jack Ketch with me. I have paid my five guineas to the executioner, and I expect you to make a clean job of it. 'Morituri te salutant', as the gladiators used to say. You have done well." He gave a small laugh. "Only, don't tell Mimi I said that."

"No, I won't."

"Then go. Here, take your _brayette_ with you. That inspector of yours will thank you for it. If he asks, tell him you bought it from a man in the street. He will believe you."

I wrapped it in newspaper to spare the blushes of other pedestrians, picked my coat and made for the door. When I looked round, Miles had his back to me and was staring out of the window, veiled in the smoke of his cigarette and deep in thought. If certain images stay with us long after the event has passed, then my last abiding memory of Miles is as he was that afternoon, half-shadow, half-light, as much as contradiction as the man himself, neither all bad nor all good.

Before I left, however, I had one final question. In my last case, I had heard mention of someone whose identity eluded me. If anyone could tell me, Miles might, moving as he did in the same shadowy world as the diamond thieves of the Tankerville Club.

"What do you know of someone called The Professor?" I asked.

"He pays well," Miles said noncommittally.

"He does exist then?"

"I've never actually met the man. He usually works through intermediaries. Why?"

I told him the reason for my interest.

"That is an avenue I would advise you not to pursue," he said. "He is not a man I should like to cross. If anyone could make that chiromancer's prediction come true, he would. Stay away from water, Sherlock – and stay away from him."

* * *

_Farewell, Miles, you old reprobate, it's been fun writing about you. A rogue, but a lovable one, I hope. But this isn't over yet – so let's return that brayette and see what Lestrade has to say._

_Continued in Chapter Twenty!_


	21. Chapter Twenty

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Chapter Twenty: Parting of the Ways**

"It's not good enough."

Inspector Lestrade, ensconced in a gloomy, north-facing office at Scotland Yard behind a desk groaning from the weight of papers, files and assorted bric-a-brac of a sentimental nature from children and spouse alike, was not impressed by my offering. Indeed, the disgruntled expression he wore had been in place ever since my arrival and it had yet to subside into something more amenable. I had not expected gratitude for delivering the _brayette_ into his safe keeping, but this outright hostility I felt was somewhat unwarranted.

"I want a name, Mr Holmes," he persisted.

"I do not have a name to give you, Inspector."

He eyed me with a look that headmasters reserve for small boys, caught talking in class or blotting their copybooks with copious amounts of ink. As assessments went, it was frank, brutal and for my part uncomfortable. I hoped I managed to maintain my composure despite the guilt gnawing away at my innards.

"If you don't mind me saying," he said finally, sitting back in his chair and regarding me over his fingertips, "I don't believe a word of it."

"You will have to," I returned, trying to feign equal indignation. "What I have told you is the truth."

Lestrade shook his head. "You must think I was born yesterday to come in here with a story like that and expect me to believe it."

"If I was trying to deceive you, I could have made up a better story than that."

He still looked unconvinced. "So, this man who approached you in the street and sold you this _brayette_, what did he look like?"

On the basis that Miles had recommended his own tale to me as it had been too fantastic – and perhaps too unbelievable – not to be true, I had decided that I could do no better than to emulate his example. It took a more active imagination than Lestrade possessed to appreciate the subtleties of such a deceit, for he was blatantly sceptical and pressing hard for the truth in the matter. There we had reached a sticking point: he would accept nothing less and I was bound by word of honour to keep what I knew a secret. I was resolved to keep my side of the bargain with Miles; it remained to be seen how far Lestrade was prepared to go to prise it from me.

"He was an ordinary sort of man," I answered obliquely. "Not very remarkable."

"Height?"

"Average."

"Age?"

"Middling."

"Hair?"

"Yes, he had hair, Lestrade."

"No, I meant colour, Mr Holmes."

"Oh, brownish."

"Eyes?"

"Two."

Lestrade sighed. "Colour?"

"Brownish, I suppose."

"Any distinguishing features?"

"No. As I said, he was very ordinary."

"So, we have a man of average height, average age, _with_ hair and eyes, both, in your words, brownish. That's a very vague description. It could be anybody." He leaned his elbows on the desk and fixed me with a penetrating stare. "If anyone else came in here and told me that, I'd have half a mind to believe them. But you, Mr Holmes, you observe details that the average Tom, Dick or Harry who comes in here off the streets wouldn't notice in a month of Sundays. So you'll forgive me, sir, if I call you a liar."

He paused to let his barb burrow deeper in the wound.

"Furthermore, I think you know exactly who this person is, and I think you're protecting him for some reason. What do you say to that?"

It was no small thing to be called a liar to my face, especially by someone I had been trying to help. I should have felt aggrieved. I dare say I should have shouted and made a fuss, as do these ruddy-faced colonels and brash young men one reads about in cheap novels, who go on to throw down the gauntlet and end up grievously wounded in ill-judged duels. Knowing I was thoroughly in the wrong, however, made the difference, and I fear my muted reaction only strengthened the case against me. Under Lestrade's continuing scrutiny, my feelings of disquiet increased and I was starting to get desperate to find something to occupy my hands.

"I say you are mistaken," I replied, taking out my cigarette case. "However, it seems I cannot change your mind—"

"No, you can't," he said, cutting me short. "Because we both know that you're lying. And don't smoke in here. The catch on the window has jammed. I don't want to go home stinking of cheap tobacco. The missus will think I've been drinking with the lads."

In matter of fact, it was an expensive Turkish blend Miles had given me, but I took Lestrade's point. Having returned the case to my pocket, I clasped my hands and tried not to fidget too much as the interrogation progressed. It was fair to call it that, for what had started with my good intention to return a stolen item to its rightful owners, had since degenerated into a session of the most demanding questions which it had hitherto been my misfortune to be subjected.

Nor I could not fault his methods. Whatever one thought of his intelligence, his interrogation skills were first-rate. Had my resolve not been so strong, I would have happily crumbled and told him every sordid detail of the affair to escape these persistent questions and his stifling little office, where one could stir the fire with the poker with one hand and open the door with the other without ever leaving one's chair.

"Look, Mr Holmes," said he, suppressing a sigh of frustration. "I can see I'm beating my head up against a brick wall here, but let me say this. Whoever you think you're protecting by this silence of yours, he isn't worth it in terms of what it's going to cost you."

Another lengthy pause ensued, a technique I was fast becoming aware he employed to increase his subject's discomfort. In my case, I could readily testify that it was working.

"In short, I'm talking about trust. It's a precious thing is trust, not bestowed lightly. It's delicate, like a bubble. Prick it and it's gone. You never get it back. You do understand what I'm saying?"

I did, only too well, despite the anomalous analogy. Whatever working relationship we had, be it based on friction or – heaven forbid – friendship, was hanging in the balance, and he was asking whether I was prepared to jeopardise that for the sake of someone who by his very actions should have forfeited any claim to loyalty. Until that moment, I had not appreciated how much it mattered to him. The criminal's identity had ceased to become important; what was at stake was a principle.

The worst of it was that normally I should have agreed with him and stood on the side of the angels. Miles, however, had thrust me into a deal with the devil. And _he_ had the gall to accuse Mycroft of engineering the situation to his own advantage.

"I understand, Inspector," I said, not looking at him. "All the same, I cannot tell you what I do not know. You have the _brayette_—"

"And I have to settle for that, do I?"

Whilst I did not deny that I was at fault, there was only so much of this self-righteous indignation that I was prepared to take.

"You were more than happy to settle for Mrs Farintosh's account of how her opal tiara was returned to her," I reminded him.

"That's different. No harm was done."

"The same applies in this case."

"No!" He emphasised his retort by banging his fist on the desk, taking me by surprise so that I sat back in my chair. "No, Mr Holmes, it's not the same at all. Mrs Farintosh was the victim. All she did was pawn a few jewels, and for that this thief you're so happy to protect would have ruined her. Now, you know who stole her tiara, and the _brayette_, and the Diadem. Worst of all, everyone knows that you know. That you dare show your face here speaks of your utter contempt of the police and what we stand for."

I stared at him. "What the devil are you talking about, Lestrade?"

"I'm talking about that missing Diadem, turning up not an hour ago. A little parcel addressed to Gregson it was, with a note inside, 'With the compliments of Mr Sherlock Holmes'."

My shock could not have been greater, although I endeavoured to contain it well enough. Whilst I had dallied and hesitated that afternoon, delaying my interview with Lestrade and the inevitable slew of questions I knew would follow, Miles had kept his side of the bargain, but in a way that pointed directly to my involvement with the denouement of the case. If he had thought he was advancing my career by such a gesture, he had proved that he was fallible in his reasoning after all. At this rate, I would be lucky if I did not find myself arrested for complicity in the crime.

"I did not send it."

Lestrade grunted. "We know that. It was from someone who signed himself 'Theo'."

A chill wrapped itself about my insides, as though all the blood had drained to my feet, leaving my mind awhirl. Miles had known. I did not how; all I could think was that Fairfax had written him a letter before he had taken his own life, implicating me in his decision. I dimly began to understand, the condolences I had offered that he would not accept, his sharp reaction when I had accused him of not caring that the blackmailer would go unpunished, his remark that he would have preferred it to have been me who had drowned in the Thames rather than his friend.

I even began to view his hesitation at the well in a different light. He had said he had considered spiting Mycroft by letting me die, but had it been more personal than that? Had he thought to let me suffer a similar death, so that the punishment would fit the crime? Was it not so much cold logic, but his fondness and grief for Fairfax that had saved my life, when he had told me he could not stand by and watch me drown?

With Miles gone, I would never have answers to my questions. He had rescued me that night in the full knowledge that my meddling had driven his friend to suicide. Revenge, we are told, is a dish best served cold, and none could have been more calculating than this. Death is absolute and felt once, but I would feel the effects of his vengeance for a long time to come.

"Who is 'Theo'?" Lestrade persisted.

I shook my head, too numbed to speak.

"Well, the only 'Theo' I could come up with is a young man who drowned himself a week ago. A naval man by the name of Theodore Fairfax. That ring any bells?"

"I knew _of_ him, Inspector," I admitted.

"So, was he the thief? It would make sense as to why he never got round to telling the world that Mrs Farintosh's tiara was a fake and thus exposing what the lady had done." His expression hardened. "Say something, Mr Holmes. I'm trying to help you here."

"Fairfax is dead. How could he have sent the Diadem to Gregson?"

"It came by special messenger. He was very vague too about the description of the fellow who gave it to him. My suspicion is that this Fairfax character entrusted the Diadem to someone and told him to send it after he'd topped himself. I don't understand why he mentioned you, though. Unless you'd like to tell me?"

"Fairfax was not the thief," I said firmly. "He killed himself because he was being blackmailed." I took a piece of paper and wrote on it the name of the detective who owned the Limehouse opium den where Fairfax had allegedly murdered a man. "You have a problem, Inspector."

"I know him," he said, his eyes wide with disbelief as he read the name. "He's a good, honest family man. A bit fly, I grant you, but a decent copper."

"He's a blackmailer," I said, rising and gathering up my things. "He's also the proprietor of the Golden Dragon, Lower Duke's Court."

"But that's…" Lestrade's mouth worked wordlessly up and down, like a fish stranded on the shore struggling to breathe. "I'll see to this," he assured me. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. We've enough problems with public perceptions as it is. If this ever gets out…" He shook his head. "It just goes to show that you never can tell about people."

"No, you never can."

Lestrade nodded, then glanced back at me. "I still want that name."

"I can't help you, Inspector."

I turned to leave.

"Before you go, sir, I thought you like to know that I remembered where I'd seen that valet of your cousin's before."

I forced a smile and looked back. "Indeed?"

"From the files," Lestrade went on. "Wally Algernon, a house-breaker from the old days, been in and out of prison a few times. He stepped out of view about ten years ago. They used to call him 'The Nun' on account of his never telling on his accomplices, and his name."

I gave him a blank look.

"His surname, ending in 'non' which sounds like 'nun'," he tried to explained. "Ah, well, never mind. Strange though, him turning up again. I would never have put him down for a valet."

"No, nor would I. He was very capable."

"Yes, he was."

He held my gaze for a long time. It no longer needed me to say it, because it was evident that Lestrade had made up his own mind about the identity of the man I was protecting. Doubtless he had come to the right conclusion. For all that I had disparaged his intelligence and aptitude in the past, never had I felt quite so inadequate as I did that day, standing with my hand on the doorknob, wanting to leave and knowing if I did without confiding in him, I might never have the opportunity again.

The impasse could not continue, however, and it was Lestrade who finally broke our awkward silence.

"Well, if that's all, I'm a busy man," he said, taking the uppermost file from an impressive pile and opening it. "You'd better go. I'm sure you've more important things to do than to waste police time, Mr Holmes."

"Inspector," I began.

"And if you're wise, you'll not come here again. You've made no friends this day. I dare say we are a bit slow here at Scotland Yard, but we get there in the end without your fancy methods. I've told you before I don't condone this turning a blind eye. Yes, so I let Mrs Farintosh off lightly, but she want she did doesn't compare to your letting a thief escape justice. This is just one instance – what about the next time? And there will be a next time, believe you me. Men like that don't change. No, Mr Holmes, I'll not stand for it. I have to shave my face every morning—"

"So do I," I interjected, earning myself a blazing glare.

"What I'm saying is that I have to look myself in the eye and know that whatever happens, whatever goes wrong, at least I can always say that I've done my best to do my job and to uphold the law. The day I can't do that is the day I'll resign. The items have been returned and that's good, but you've broken trust with me, sir. You've lied to me and I don't like it. A liar is worse than a thief in my book. A thief will only take your wallet, but a liar insults you, because they think you're stupid."

He paused in his diatribe only to catch his breath.

"And while we're on the subject, the other detectives who work here don't like you rubbing their noses in it. They're saying that this 'Theo' cove wants you to get the credit. Well, you won't, believe me. This is Scotland Yard's case, not yours."

"I never said it was," I objected. "If you remember, Lestrade, you _asked_ me to help."

"Well, I'll not make that mistake again. I'd rather be thought a fool than have it confirmed by the likes of you. You know, Mr Holmes, you're lucky the Chief Constable doesn't have you arrested. The only reason you haven't been is because he says you aren't worth the trouble. What else he had to say about you doesn't bear repeating. He had a few choice words for me too for telling you about the case in the first place. At this rate, there'll be talk about Rutland again."

"Won't your exposing this corrupt detective help?"

"You think telling tales out of school on a fellow officer is going to go down well? They won't thank me for it. The Chief Constable likes to think the C.I.D. is clean of all that after the last lot of trouble. What do you think he's going to say when I take this to him?"

"I thought I was helping. I'm sorry."

"Are you?" he shot back. "Then how about giving me the name of the thief?"

I shook my head.

"Then I think that's all we have to say to each other. Shut the door on your way out. Good day, Mr Holmes."

* * *

_**Didn't go well, did it? Miles got his revenge, Lestrade isn't talking to him… where on earth is young Mr Holmes going to go from here?**_

_**Concluded in the Epilogue!**_


	22. Epilogue

_**The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer**_

**Epilogue**

Nine months and a day after the events at Easton Court, my circumstances had changed beyond all recognition. If I add that it was not for the better, it may be correctly surmised that I was still suffering the effects of the case I shall ever refer to as that of Ricoletti of the club-foot and his abominable wife. A petty problem or a staggering failure, call it what one will, it was the reason my career was hanging in the balance that chill December morn.

That, and my having been beaten by Miles of all people, someone notorious for being a reprobate, a roué, and a dissipated sensationalist. Although not generally known, he was also possibly the cleverest thief in London. It would happen a number of times over the years that I would occasionally suffer defeat, once even at the hands of a woman, but the first time is the worst. The shock of the new makes it memorable. It remains, a dark and bitter stain on the soul, still festering when age and experience has tempered all else into vague memories.

Undeniably there was no shame in defeat when the opponents are equally matched, as Miles had told me, but I had my doubts that in this case that was true. He had been one step ahead of me throughout the affair, and had he been less sentimental, I would have drowned the night the chiromancer and his wife had heaved me into the well. He had saved my life – and then had done his level best to ruin it.

Thanks to Miles, any headway I had been making in my self-appointed profession had come to an abrupt halt. Lestrade had been as good as his word. As the year had staggered into autumn, I had seen his name mentioned in the papers in connection with several burglaries in Westminster. From what I read, he had struggled to make an arrest, and the case was still unsolved. I had hoped he would swallow his pride and consult me. But he had not come.

In fact, no one came, except for one notable occasion when the sullen breezes of June had blown a familiar face from my university days in my direction. Reginald Musgrave, a welcome visitor after months in the desert of ennui, was nevertheless one of that class of men for whom money is a sordid inconvenience and thus are largely untroubled by the everyday concerns that plague the rest of mankind. I had not liked to address the issue of my fee directly, although perhaps honesty would have been better, for my hints about my having to live by my wits fell on deaf ears.

I got personal satisfaction from the case in succeeding where others had failed, but precious little else. Given my circumstances, the opportunity to buttress my battered confidence could have been considered beyond price. A small consideration for my time, however, would not have gone amiss, especially with my funds running out and the rent overdue.

At one time, I would have turned to my brother for financial assistance. That I could not was due to our not having spoken since our last meeting at his fledgling club when he had expressed his disapproval over my handling of the business with Ricoletti, warned me against meddling with women of Miles's acquaintance, and asserted that he had been mistaken in suggesting me for the case all along. After Miles had left, he had written. I had sent the letter back to him, unread. Mycroft had not written again.

Whilst I did not begrudge our cousin his revenge, which I thought mostly deserved on my part, I did take umbrage at the thought that Mycroft had used me to put an end to Miles's less noble enterprises. I would not be manipulated, not by Mycroft, and not for purposes of which I was left ignorant. Cutting our fraternal ties seemed to be the only way to preserve my independence. Resentment and anger held my hand when it would have been better to have settled our differences, and by the time I could view the situation with greater detachment our lack of contact had become a habit hard to break, each believing the other to be at fault.

The problem with being one's own master is that the small, annoying minutiae of life, like money, suddenly take on a role above and beyond their relative importance. Rashly perhaps, I had returned the cheque the Prime Minister had sent me as payment for my services, on the grounds that failure did not deserve to be rewarded. I had the impression from the tone of the letter that had accompanied it that, although he had gone through the motions, he had not expected me to accept. His reference to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the demise of Lady Agnes struck a chord, and I was damned with faint praise with his consideration that I had "done the best I could in a difficult situation". My best had resulted in a death; it was hard enough living with my conscience, let alone accepting money for it.

I soon realised, however, that either I would have to adopt a more business-like approach to my affairs or starve. Since I had determined to refuse the small allowance Mycroft had been giving me, I was faced with the very real possibility of having to work for a living. In the event, I prevaricated for too long, unable to reconcile myself to the failure of my chosen profession and always hoping that another case would come to my door, with the result that shortly after Musgrave's visit, I returned one day to find my things piled up on the pavement.

This and my reduced circumstances was the reason I was no longer residing in Montague Street, but in a rather less respectable quarter of the City. Smithfield with its meat market greeted its residents with the stink of blood and the clatter of wagons most mornings, save Fridays, when attention turned to the fish market, and Sundays, when the peel of church bells took the place of the shouts and cries of the workers. For me, its attractions were twofold: firstly, my accommodation was cheap, and secondly, St Bart's was just round the corner.

The good fortune that address was later to bestow upon me in the shape of an ex-army doctor in search of someone with whom to share lodgings was still some years in the future. In that winter of 1878, it represented drudgery. I had had to find work, for the rent on my rooms, mean as they were, still needed paying, and I had to eat. The best I could find was an assistant in the chemical laboratories, which in effect meant cleaning up after the students had had their classes. It was dirty, demeaning, and demoralising, and I hated every minute of it.

In its favour, when my duties were done, I was allowed to pursue my own interests, having satisfied the senior lecturer, Professor Barnard, that my experiments were neither criminal in nature nor dangerous. Long after the teaching staff had gone home, I spent many a happy hour among the retorts and flickering blue flames of the Bunsen lamps, surrounded by poison bottles and bubbling acids, furthering my knowledge with the aid of an old book and limitless patience.

It also had the advantage of being warm. Coal cost money, wood less so, but both were still beyond my means. My room was damp, draughty and unbearably cold. A cough had settled on my lungs in late September and had stubbornly persisted, worrying my sleep and leaving me wheezing on frosty mornings. Some evenings it was preferable not to return to my lodgings and, as long as I was gone before the students arrived for their classes, I was not discouraged from passing the night in the lab, either working or sleeping.

On this occasion, several days after Christmas, with the term ended and the students gone back to their homes, tiredness had got the better of me. I had nodded over a passage about reagents and fallen into a deep sleep. The book had made a comfortable pillow and I had remained slumped over the bench until Mrs Babbage, the cleaning woman, had shaken me by the shoulder and told me there was someone asking after me in the reception downstairs.

A good woman, if somewhat forgetful, all she could tell me was that he was a priest, although his name escaped her. What she could remember was it was a "funny sort of name" and he had "funny ways about him". Intrigued, I asked her to show him up. She assured me she would, and promised to return with a cup of tea because I looked "like I needed it". Stiff from the cold and in agony as a result of my awkward sleeping position, I was in no position to argue with her assessment and gratefully accepted this kind offer.

I could not imagine why I had been sought out by a clergyman, except that there might be a case at the end of it. The laboratory was hardly the place to conduct business, but faced with the option of taking him to my room, which was unlikely to inspire confidence, or the local public house, which was liable to create a bad impression, I had to make the best of a bad situation. As it transpired, I need not have worried, for my visitor was none other than my thin, severe, and eminently ecclesiastical cousin, Endymion Holmes.

If it is true that there is no genius entirely free of some spice of madness, then Endymion was living proof that some members of our family had been blessed with more than their fair share of eccentricity. I had met him once – and once was certainly enough – at the Turkish Baths, where he had spoken of me in the third person in the most disparaging terms and embarrassed me before a member of the press.

Why he wanted to see me now I could not fathom. I was learning to be wary of my cousins, however, and so it was that I approached our interview with a healthy degree of scepticism.

"Sherlock," said he, turning up his patrician nose both at me and the rows of bottled frogs, lizards and assorted body parts that lined the shelves. "I was told I might find you here. What is this place?"

"I would have thought that was self-evident," I replied. "What did you want, Endymion?"

His eyes flitted briefly to my face and then away again, as though the very thought of looking at me was heinous to his soul. "Jocelyn," he uttered. Ever one for the formalities, he steadfastly refused to refer to his elder brother by anything other than his despised Christian name. "He says you are… wise."

Coming from Miles, that was a compliment indeed. "How is your brother?"

"Wallowing in the fleshpots of Venice the last I heard. He has forsaken his family and given himself entirely over to dissipation. He is profane, Sherlock, profane! If ever a man was shapen in wickedness, it is my brother."

So saying, with his nostrils flaring as wide as railway arches, he grasped me by the shoulder and pulled me close to whisper in my ear.

"Think yourself fortunate that you were spared his malign influence. I am glad to see that he did not succeed in your moral deflowerment."

"My moral what?"

" 'His words were smoother than oil, and yet they be very swords'," he hissed, peppering my ear with droplets of spittle as he spoke. "He is beyond redemption, I have long been convinced of that, ever since he locked me in the coal shed as a boy."

"Yet you were happy to take his money," I reminded him, thinking back to the time when he interrupted our afternoon at the baths pleading poverty after the loss of his bags.

"That was different. It was the diocesan dinner that night and it was imperative that I attend." The unctuous smile that spread across his features sat ill with the deeply-engraved lines of his usual expression of perpetual disapproval. "I am to have a parish of my own. The bishop has given me his word."

"Well, I'm sure he knows best."

"Of course he does," he said primly. "He was quite prepared to overlook that unfortunate incident with Mrs Albright—"

"Wasn't she the one you called a harlot for suggesting women would be better off without corsets?"

Endymion's smile faded. "Oh, you heard about that. Foul woman. How was I to know to that she was the Bishop's goddaughter? Still, if there is any cause for embarrassment in this family it is down to Jocelyn. Drink, gambling, fornication – there is no vice unknown to him, and now he has taken himself off to the Continent to indulge his… his _immoral_ activities. Are we not cautioned to abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul? I have tried to tell him, but he will not listen!" He emphasised his point with a resounding snort of contempt. "Very well, we shall manage without him. You and I, cousin, we shall prevail against the rise of this new Gomorrah."

I had let Endymion ramble on, but mention of our forming an alliance for some undefined purpose told me it was high time to put an end to the proceedings.

"I'm sorry," I interjected. "I don't know what Miles has told you—"

"He has told me you are a man of intelligence." He looked me up and down. "I have to say that the sight of you is not encouraging. I have seen men several years dead with more flesh on their bones than you."

Typically, my cough would choose that moment to put in an appearance. While I choked, Endymion took a step back and fluttered a handkerchief before his nose.

"You don't sound at all healthy. And you are so very young."

At only five years my senior, I thought his judgement presumptuous.

"Still, we were all young once, and foolish I dare say, but the measure of a man may be gauged by his choice of literature." An old, battered tome was produced from his inside his copious coat. "Jocelyn left this for you. He said you would appreciate it."

The title, '_Religio Medici_', had been embossed in faded gold lettering into the leather. Underneath was the name of the author, Sir Thomas Browne. This then was the book of which Madame de Mont St Jean had spoken. The subject matter was not the fare one would normally choose for wooing one's lover, but then Miles was not the typical wooer. If he had wanted me to have it, clearly it had some deeper meaning.

"A fine thinker," said Endymion approvingly. "Such a work was wasted in the hands of a philistine like my brother. You'll notice it's a first edition, 1634 to be exact. I dare say it's probably worth something."

I did not disagree. More than likely it was worth a great deal if it had been in Miles's possession. Stolen too in all probability, for I noticed the stamp of the Oxford college on the title page to which it rightfully belonged. Inside, I found a letter sandwiched between two pages, one of which had been marked to indicate a certain passage, which described how 'a man may be in as just possession of truth as of a city, and yet be forced to surrender'. The parallel with my own situation could not have been more apt. Even at a distance, Miles could not resist demonstrating his superiority.

As for the letter, it was much as I had expected.

'_My dear Sherlock,'_ [it began], _'if you are reading this, then my brother Endymion wants something of you. I would not expect him to deliver this out of the kindness of his heart, for such is not in his nature. If it is money he wants, refuse him. If it is help, then that I leave to your conscience. I know, however, how you love a mystery, and so anticipate that you will give him your full co-operation._

'_I trust you will forgive my little whim regarding the return of a certain item. You should not have meddled. Theo sent me a letter the day he died, detailing what passed between you that afternoon. A life calls for a life – and yet for all that you had done, I could not be your executioner. The difficulties in which I anticipate you now find yourself are repayment enough. We are equal, cousin; the debt is paid. As for you, if you are half the man I believe you to be, you will survive and I dare say do very well for yourself. You are a Holmes, after all. England expects and all that._

'_Convey my regards to your brother, if you can still tolerate the fellow's presence, and give him this book. He had the temerity to take it from me once before, and I couldn't resist retrieving it. It has been a friend to me for so very long, but as I leave one life behind and begin another, it is well that I shed old remembrances. Here it began, and so shall it end. Completeness in life is so very desirable._

_I am, v__ery sincerely yours,_

_Miles Holmes.'_

"Anything of interest?" asked Endymion, craning his head to see what was written.

"Your brother says you want something," I said, stowing the letter in my pocket.

"Does he? Well, he's right as a matter of fact. I have… a _problem_, Sherlock." He edged closer. "We are alike, you and I. We should ally. We need to protect ourselves against a common enemy. We are both at the mercy of our elder brothers—"

"I am not."

"Dependent on the meagre handouts they see fit to give us."

"Endymion, I am _not_."

"Oh, there is not shame in admitting it, cousin. Had I not my stipend, I would be as wretched as you. At least if you died tomorrow you have your virtue intact, which is more than can be said for my brother. And die we most certainly may."

His eyes rolled and for a worrying moment I thought he was about to pass out.

"Armageddon is upon us!" he hissed. " 'Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.' And see there, the Mother of all Harlots!"

This pronouncement unfortunately coincided with the return of Mrs Babbage with the promised tea. The cups rattled on her tray as she came to an abrupt stop, her eyes wide as the curious figure of my cousin danced before her, gesticulating wildly in her direction. I am not without humour, but the fact we were related deprived the scene of any amusement for me. Before he could make a further spectacle of himself, I hauled him back to a stool, sat him down and explained that our visitor was none other than the cleaning woman.

"Forgive me, dear lady," Endymion said, releasing a heartfelt sigh as he slumped onto the nearest stool. "I have been somewhat overwrought of late."

"Oh, don't you worry about it, vicar," said the genial woman. "See, I've made you a nice cup of tea. You have that and you'll notice a world of difference."

"You are a blessing in disguise."

She blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. "Why, I've been called many things in my time, but never that. Thank you, sir."

"My pleasure. And remember to say away from sin."

"I do, vicar, I do. By the time I'm finished here, I'm too tired for sin. Leastways, that's what I tell Mr Babbage!"

Endymion blanched. "Insolent woman," he muttered when she had gone. "You should report her and have her removed."

"Why don't you tell me what you want? If it's a crisis of faith, I don't see how I can help you. You would be better advised to speak to the Bishop."

"I cannot!" he said, grasping my arm so hard that it hurt where his fingers pinched my flesh. "I should warn him, certainly, for we all must prepare. Sherlock, the graves are opening! Why, only yesterday, I saw a dead man walking about, as alive as you or I."

"Perhaps you were mistaken."

He shook his head vehemently. "No, I recognised him, cousin."

"And you're sure it was the same man?"

"Yes, most certainly. His name was Vamberry."

The name seemed familiar, although I could not immediately think why.

"I was staying with a friend, you see. He's the chaplain at Postern Prison. Last week he was taken ill, and I offered to stand in for him. One of the prisoners I saw was this man Vamberry. I encouraged him to confess of his sins."

"Did he?"

"No, he declared he was innocent, but of course they all do. Well, cousin, I thought no more of it until yesterday when I saw him in Jermyn Street, as bold as brass, in a gentleman's outfitters."

"What was he doing?"

"Buying a dressing gown, I believe."

It occurred to me to say that the newly-risen must have more pressing matters on their minds than the state of their wardrobes. Endymion was sincere in his belief, however, and I feared that undue provocation would bring about the return of his earlier hysteria.

"Have you considered that he might simply have been released?" I suggested gently.

"Released!" he screeched. "Sherlock, he was a condemned man. It was reported in all the papers that he was hanged two days ago for murdering his wife!"

**The End**

* * *

_Well, friends, readers and reviewers, we've reached the end of The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer. Thank you for all the reviews, comments and messages. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I have writing it._

_And yes, there's going to be a sequel! __Holmes will soon return for another of his early cases in…_

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison!**_


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